I have once again emerged from the abyss that regularly and mercilessly swallows unsuspecting women like me, draining them of energy, judgment and money before spitting them back out as heavy-laden shells of their former selves. I’m talking about Target. What is it about that place? Is there a spell cast upon me as I pass through those red, electronic sliding doors? (‘Mich-shhhh-ele,’ they sweetly whisper as they open, and again, Mich-shhhh-ele, as they close.) I swear on the life of my children and unborn grandchildren that I dutifully compose a shopping list in the Target parking lot, on the back of what is probably a very important receipt (which I found crumpled beneath my brake pedal), and promise myself that I will adhere to it absolutely: tennis balls, brown lunch bags and goldfish crackers.
I clutch the list tightly and keep it within eyesight as I grab my crimson cart. But as God is my witness, once inside the vastness that is Target, with its endless aisles stocked with every consumer good that any consumer in the history of consumerism has ever consumed, I am powerless to resist. My otherwise discerning mind begins to utter these words the moment I breathe the rarified air of the Target vestibule, with its giant red bulls-eye that should more aptly be painted on my back than on their wall: I need, I want, I must have…
I need the twelve-ply, double-roll, twenty-four pack of toilet paper…I need that thirty-seven liter jug of laundry detergent…I must have that cleverly antiqued garden sign and matching garden hose spigot…I want to see all my clothes hanging on those faux velvet hangers…my kids need two Scooby Doo electric toothbrushes…my husband needs those seer sucker Bermuda shorts…I must have those three chick flicks (because what woman doesn’t need a chick flick library and since I can’t decide between Julia, Drew and Meg, why not get all three since they’re only $5 each?) A talking cookie jar, a case of cinnamon toaster strudel, four pair of new summer flip-flops…because last years flip-flops are just so ‘last year’…even though it’s only February.
Before I know it the original list with the tennis balls, brown lunch bags and goldfish crackers has gotten buried beneath two new doormats for Halloween (again, it’s February), a carwash kit for my Father’s birthday (November), a lifetime supply of cotton balls (because we used up our last lifetime supply), a new laundry hamper, and a couple of bottles of my favorite chardonnay…because who doesn’t need a drink after such an exhausting day?
I might be exaggerating ever so slightly, but honestly, I’ve long been embarrassed by my chronic lack of self-control in that place. Lately, however, the real source of my shopping angst has changed. For lack of a better way of putting it, I’ve grown a shopping conscience. Part of it comes from simply wanting my kids to learn how to appreciate what they do have rather than whine about what they don’t. And as much as I hate to admit it, contentment is a trickle-down attitude. They need to see me asking myself, “Do I really need…the cookie jar, the door mat, the flip-flops…?” Recently I taped a note to my bathroom mirror that reads ‘Be a consumer of only what you need today.’ It helps.
But in addition to my parenting concerns, over the past several years I’ve had the chance to travel to a number of places in East Africa. I got to know people who live on less than $2 a day. I walked beside women who travel miles morning and evening to get water for their families. And I learned that a significant percentage of people in our world live this way. Talk about a ‘reality check.’
And even more than that, I’ve seen people who actually suffer oppression because of the ‘stuff’ that we citizens of wealthy nations insist on having at our disposal. For most of human history the majority of things people used or consumed were grown or built or created by themselves or someone they knew. We had ‘direct relationship’ societies. But in today’s post-industrialized society, few of us have any idea who made what we use, or where it really came from. We don’t know who picked our strawberries or sewed the buttons on our blouses or bottled our milk or assembled our cell phones. And because we don’t know, we often don’t care.
But what if ‘readily available goods’ at ‘rock bottom prices’ means that someone somewhere is being exploited? Does it matter? I think it does. It matters who made my kids shoes. Was she paid a decent wage? It matters where my coffee beans were picked. Are growers there treated fairly? It matters how the cotton for my pillowcases was harvested. Are the working conditions humane? I’ve come to understand that I really do have a relationship with the person who produces my goods. And even though that relationship is indirect, the fact is that if I’m drinking coffee harvested by someone who was exploited, in a way I’m participating in that exploitation.
As an American woman I have a lot of influence over the ways in which our family’s money is spent. I’ve begun carrying a handy little shopping guide (Better World Shopping Guide by Ellis Jones) in my purse that gives ratings to products based on the way the company or corporation treats its employees and the surrounding environment. I’ve stopped buying Orbit gum (Wrigley doesn’t get a great rating) in favor of Trident (who gives a percentage of its profits to Save the Children). For similar reasons we’ve switched from Quilted Northern toilet tissue to Cottonelle or Seventh Generation.
Sometimes it means going without a product that I didn’t really need anyway. Sometimes it means sending an email to a company and asking them to pay their employees a fair wage or make better environmental policies. A lot of the time it simply means shopping locally and knowing the people who make or grow the things you want. I’m grateful that my shopping conscience is leading me to become a more compassionate consumer. And I look forward to the day when I’ll drive out of the Target parking lot with nothing in the trunk but tennis balls, brown lunch bags and goldfish crackers.
Some of my favorite social conscious shopping resources:
AGreaterGift.org
BetterWorldShopper.com
Baksheesh (www.vom.com/baksheesh)
DivineChocolate.com
GearthatGives.com
GroundsforChange.com
SweatShopWatch.org
TenThousandVillages.com
TradeAsOne.org
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Grocery Store Confidential
I’ve decided grocery stores are the perfect place for observing human nature. There’s a lot going on in the psychological undercurrent of your local grocery store that I think is noteworthy. Or maybe I just need to get more of a life. But nonetheless I’ve being noticing some interesting things about myself and my fellow cart pushers.
Speaking of carts, my tendency is to stash mine in as much of an out-of-the-way spot as possible and head unencumbered down an aisle to grab, say, applesauce and olives. I’m convinced it will be more efficient than having to maneuver my cart through the maze of others shoppers trying to likewise maneuver their carts. (Can you say, ‘Bumper Cars’)? Of course, on my way to gather my applesauce and olives, I spy the imported vanilla from Madagascar that I read about in some magazine, and lo and behold, it’s right next to a jar of artichoke Meyer lemon tapanade (that sounds far better than it tastes), and I realize how much happier my family will be if we have these items in our pantry. And before I know it, I’m shuffling down the aisle with cans of mandarins underneath my chin, packages of pasta under my armpits, and I don’t even remember what…nor can I look down to check…between my knees.
But the fun really begins when my now overflowing cart and I go looking for the shortest checkout line. If I’m on top of my game I’ve brought at least one of my kids with me. I’ve spent years training my kids how to strategically position themselves in other lines and communicate with first-base-coach-like signals when they think we should all converge into their superior checkout lane.
The very best thing that can happen to me on any given day, short of winning the lotto or my kid scoring a 100% on a math test, is correctly predicting which new cashier stand is going to open up while I’m at the end of a very long line. It takes a high level of concentration, which can be difficult to maintain in the over-stimulating environment of your typical grocery store, but on a few very special…dare I say magical?...days, I’ve known the joy of catching the eye of the fresh cashier as he/she is just flicking on his/her lane light. I deftly pull out from the rear of the pack and, carefully avoiding eye contact with any of my fellow shoppers, make a beeline for the newly opened station. Ah, victory.
And what about ‘10 items or less’? One of the most important questions of our time is this: If the 10 item Express lane is empty, AND there’s a cashier in place, AND all the normal lanes are at least three deep with carts filled with a month’s supply of food for their families and pets, AND I only have items for tonight’s dinner, AND those items total a mere 12, is it socially acceptable to use that Express lane? Logic says ‘yes’, but inevitably, as soon as I’ve unloaded my 12 items onto the grocery belt, someone with only a gallon of milk steps up behind me and I can feel the knives shooting from their eyes into my spine. Do stores put you on a list if you’ve gone through the Express lane with over the allotted number? Is my photo posted on the hidden side of the cash register? Will a second infraction result in the destruction of my frequent shopper rewards card?
Recently I was witness to another serious issue at my favorite grocery store, Trader Joes. (Trader Joe’s rules)! In the lane next to my own there was a cart filled about half way, but with no human attached to said cart. Behind it was another cart, this one with human attached, which had apparently just pulled into line. The shopper currently checking out was getting dangerously close to paying her bill and having her groceries loaded into her eco-friendly canvas bags. The woman behind the human-less cart was looking around to see if anyone was coming to claim it. Seeing no one she begin to go around the unattended cart, but just as she did the absentee shopper arrived with several last minute items and took her ‘rightful’ place at the checkout counter. Oh, boy, you could cut the tension with a cheese knife. Insincere apologies were exchanged, evil eyes were given, accompanied by not-so-subtle heavy sighs and not-so-quiet mutterings under the breath.
Now, I do sympathize. I’ve been known on certain occasions (okay, weekly) to stake my place in line and go grab one or maybe two more things. Oft times I leave my kids with the cart and give them the solemn duty of pushing it forward. It’s risky, I know. But at this point in my life I know how long it takes me to get from the checkout line to the dried fruit and nuts and back again, with plenty of time to spare. But sometimes you’re waylaid by a neighbor, or you’re barred from your goal by a gridlock of shoppers who didn’t think to stash their carts in an out-of-the-way spot and head unencumbered down the aisle, and the whole system breaks down. In the distance you hear your kids’ voices rising above the market din, calling out in panic, wondering aloud how they’re going to pay for the groceries, and like a tiger protecting her cubs you abandon your quest and leap to their defense.
Priorities.
But I really wanted those pistachios.
Speaking of carts, my tendency is to stash mine in as much of an out-of-the-way spot as possible and head unencumbered down an aisle to grab, say, applesauce and olives. I’m convinced it will be more efficient than having to maneuver my cart through the maze of others shoppers trying to likewise maneuver their carts. (Can you say, ‘Bumper Cars’)? Of course, on my way to gather my applesauce and olives, I spy the imported vanilla from Madagascar that I read about in some magazine, and lo and behold, it’s right next to a jar of artichoke Meyer lemon tapanade (that sounds far better than it tastes), and I realize how much happier my family will be if we have these items in our pantry. And before I know it, I’m shuffling down the aisle with cans of mandarins underneath my chin, packages of pasta under my armpits, and I don’t even remember what…nor can I look down to check…between my knees.
But the fun really begins when my now overflowing cart and I go looking for the shortest checkout line. If I’m on top of my game I’ve brought at least one of my kids with me. I’ve spent years training my kids how to strategically position themselves in other lines and communicate with first-base-coach-like signals when they think we should all converge into their superior checkout lane.
The very best thing that can happen to me on any given day, short of winning the lotto or my kid scoring a 100% on a math test, is correctly predicting which new cashier stand is going to open up while I’m at the end of a very long line. It takes a high level of concentration, which can be difficult to maintain in the over-stimulating environment of your typical grocery store, but on a few very special…dare I say magical?...days, I’ve known the joy of catching the eye of the fresh cashier as he/she is just flicking on his/her lane light. I deftly pull out from the rear of the pack and, carefully avoiding eye contact with any of my fellow shoppers, make a beeline for the newly opened station. Ah, victory.
And what about ‘10 items or less’? One of the most important questions of our time is this: If the 10 item Express lane is empty, AND there’s a cashier in place, AND all the normal lanes are at least three deep with carts filled with a month’s supply of food for their families and pets, AND I only have items for tonight’s dinner, AND those items total a mere 12, is it socially acceptable to use that Express lane? Logic says ‘yes’, but inevitably, as soon as I’ve unloaded my 12 items onto the grocery belt, someone with only a gallon of milk steps up behind me and I can feel the knives shooting from their eyes into my spine. Do stores put you on a list if you’ve gone through the Express lane with over the allotted number? Is my photo posted on the hidden side of the cash register? Will a second infraction result in the destruction of my frequent shopper rewards card?
Recently I was witness to another serious issue at my favorite grocery store, Trader Joes. (Trader Joe’s rules)! In the lane next to my own there was a cart filled about half way, but with no human attached to said cart. Behind it was another cart, this one with human attached, which had apparently just pulled into line. The shopper currently checking out was getting dangerously close to paying her bill and having her groceries loaded into her eco-friendly canvas bags. The woman behind the human-less cart was looking around to see if anyone was coming to claim it. Seeing no one she begin to go around the unattended cart, but just as she did the absentee shopper arrived with several last minute items and took her ‘rightful’ place at the checkout counter. Oh, boy, you could cut the tension with a cheese knife. Insincere apologies were exchanged, evil eyes were given, accompanied by not-so-subtle heavy sighs and not-so-quiet mutterings under the breath.
Now, I do sympathize. I’ve been known on certain occasions (okay, weekly) to stake my place in line and go grab one or maybe two more things. Oft times I leave my kids with the cart and give them the solemn duty of pushing it forward. It’s risky, I know. But at this point in my life I know how long it takes me to get from the checkout line to the dried fruit and nuts and back again, with plenty of time to spare. But sometimes you’re waylaid by a neighbor, or you’re barred from your goal by a gridlock of shoppers who didn’t think to stash their carts in an out-of-the-way spot and head unencumbered down the aisle, and the whole system breaks down. In the distance you hear your kids’ voices rising above the market din, calling out in panic, wondering aloud how they’re going to pay for the groceries, and like a tiger protecting her cubs you abandon your quest and leap to their defense.
Priorities.
But I really wanted those pistachios.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The M Ticket
My fourteen year old son, Casey has gone to Disneyland this weekend for the second time in his life and I’m not with him. I learned from our first trip seven years ago that I’ve become a full-fledged, no-holds-barred grown up. And there’s no escaping this reality no matter how hard I try.
Understand that I've always been one of those Moms. By 'one of those,' I mean the kind of Mom who tries to participate 100% in the lives of her children. I kick off my shoes, roll up my sleeves and experience life as they experience it (therapist-speak for: I still see myself as twelve years old.)
I've always loved good roller coasters; ones with sharp drops or corkscrews or full-on loop de loops. And in my mind, that was still true. However, in the physical reality of my post childbirth life...not so much. The pathetic fact is this: It doesn't matter if it's the Matterhorn or your basic, no frills merry-go-round, I'm woozy within seconds of the safety bar being secured...suddenly bearing a striking resemblance to Mr. Toad of Mr Toad's Wild Ride.
On our last trip, I was transformed into the kind of Mom I'd hoped I never would become: the observer Mom. The Mom that says to her family: "You go on and have fun. I'll meet you at the exit." Now, the politically correct...or should I say, parentally correct... rationalization of my chagrin is actually also the truth. I will treasure the looks of sheer delight on their faces every time they came off a thrilling ride. But when I divided the number of delighted looks into the cost of four 'three-day park-hopper' tickets, I couldn't help feeling a little bit short changed.
It was then and there that I decided Disney needed to borrow a page from its own history. Remember the famous E ticket? Well I think it's high time Disney established the M ticket. "M" ostensibly stands for "Moms"...but it really stands for Manicures, Massages and Margaritas. The M ticket would be issued ever so discreetly as Moms walk into the park.
So while those I love most in the world anticipate bobsledding through the legendary Matterhorn, I duck into a quiet room shimmering with the soft glow of aromatherapy candles and allow the gentle sounds of a rain forest to soothe my soul as Sven, a superior Swedish massage therapist, works on my ever-aching neck and shoulders
While my children dare their hastily devoured corndogs to stay down while spinning on the Mad Hatters Teacups, I'll be sipping a lovely cup of Chamomile tea accompanied by an assortment of scones with Devonshire cream and lemon tartlets.
The most popular ride in all of Disneyland is Space Mountain. It makes me queasy just writing the words. Here the M ticket alternative will be spiritual renewal in the 'Give Me My Space' Yoga Retreat. While hordes of non-Moms hurtle blindly through the alien darkness, we'll be energizing our inner beings in the postures of Downward Facing Dog and Sun Salutation.
And the Grande Finale to the M ticket day? Picture a combination of the best elements of the Jungle Cruise and the Pirates of the Caribbean with a little Indiana Jones excitement thrown in for good measure. Imagine chiseled Cabana boys performing revitalizing foot reflexology on my lovely size sevens, palm fronds fanning my face while I recline in a retractable, cushioned, vibrating lounge chair and enjoy a romantic film starring George Clooney (preferably in a tuxedo).
So there you have it. I'm sure after my marketing pitch to Disney Inc. it will only be a matter of time until it becomes available to the general Mom population. Now if only I could get Walt to return my calls.
Understand that I've always been one of those Moms. By 'one of those,' I mean the kind of Mom who tries to participate 100% in the lives of her children. I kick off my shoes, roll up my sleeves and experience life as they experience it (therapist-speak for: I still see myself as twelve years old.)
I've always loved good roller coasters; ones with sharp drops or corkscrews or full-on loop de loops. And in my mind, that was still true. However, in the physical reality of my post childbirth life...not so much. The pathetic fact is this: It doesn't matter if it's the Matterhorn or your basic, no frills merry-go-round, I'm woozy within seconds of the safety bar being secured...suddenly bearing a striking resemblance to Mr. Toad of Mr Toad's Wild Ride.
On our last trip, I was transformed into the kind of Mom I'd hoped I never would become: the observer Mom. The Mom that says to her family: "You go on and have fun. I'll meet you at the exit." Now, the politically correct...or should I say, parentally correct... rationalization of my chagrin is actually also the truth. I will treasure the looks of sheer delight on their faces every time they came off a thrilling ride. But when I divided the number of delighted looks into the cost of four 'three-day park-hopper' tickets, I couldn't help feeling a little bit short changed.
It was then and there that I decided Disney needed to borrow a page from its own history. Remember the famous E ticket? Well I think it's high time Disney established the M ticket. "M" ostensibly stands for "Moms"...but it really stands for Manicures, Massages and Margaritas. The M ticket would be issued ever so discreetly as Moms walk into the park.
So while those I love most in the world anticipate bobsledding through the legendary Matterhorn, I duck into a quiet room shimmering with the soft glow of aromatherapy candles and allow the gentle sounds of a rain forest to soothe my soul as Sven, a superior Swedish massage therapist, works on my ever-aching neck and shoulders
While my children dare their hastily devoured corndogs to stay down while spinning on the Mad Hatters Teacups, I'll be sipping a lovely cup of Chamomile tea accompanied by an assortment of scones with Devonshire cream and lemon tartlets.
The most popular ride in all of Disneyland is Space Mountain. It makes me queasy just writing the words. Here the M ticket alternative will be spiritual renewal in the 'Give Me My Space' Yoga Retreat. While hordes of non-Moms hurtle blindly through the alien darkness, we'll be energizing our inner beings in the postures of Downward Facing Dog and Sun Salutation.
And the Grande Finale to the M ticket day? Picture a combination of the best elements of the Jungle Cruise and the Pirates of the Caribbean with a little Indiana Jones excitement thrown in for good measure. Imagine chiseled Cabana boys performing revitalizing foot reflexology on my lovely size sevens, palm fronds fanning my face while I recline in a retractable, cushioned, vibrating lounge chair and enjoy a romantic film starring George Clooney (preferably in a tuxedo).
So there you have it. I'm sure after my marketing pitch to Disney Inc. it will only be a matter of time until it becomes available to the general Mom population. Now if only I could get Walt to return my calls.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Where Have All the Shower Caps Gone?
I’m a woman. There’s about a fifty-fifty shot that you’re a woman too. So, can someone answer this question: why don’t women wear shower caps anymore? I couldn’t for the life of me tell you where to even purchase one of these latex skull caps, much less the last time I shoved my hair inside one. Now, granted, I haven’t really looked in the last, oh say twenty five years, but still, I haven’t even noticed them in passing. I would presume they’d be in the hair care aisle, hanging somewhere near the increasingly hard-to-find shampoo for normal hair. Not for color treated, or frosted, or highlighted, or streaked or even straightened…just plain ol’ normal hair!
Now I’m really not one for conspiracy theories, but was there some sort of subliminal campaign back in the 80’s, perpetrated by the greedy and powerful shampoo industry, that convinced us that unwashed hair was like un-brushed teeth or un-rolled-on armpits? Were shower caps seriously cutting into their business? Might there be a new George Clooney docudrama in our future?
And while we’re on the subject, what about swim caps? Of course I still see them on competitive swimmers…those crazed athletes who shave every hair off their bodies in the hopes of likewise shaving a millisecond off their time…but what about the rest of us? I certainly don’t like my hair turning green or drying out from chlorine or clogging up pool drains like my grandmother would tell me each and every time she squeezed my average sized head into the doll-sized, daisy-decorated swim cap she purchased at the local five and dime.
I’m not entirely sure the blood has ever fully returned to my brain.
I’m a woman. There’s about a fifty-fifty shot that you’re a woman too. So, can someone answer this question: why don’t women wear shower caps anymore? I couldn’t for the life of me tell you where to even purchase one of these latex skull caps, much less the last time I shoved my hair inside one. Now, granted, I haven’t really looked in the last, oh say twenty five years, but still, I haven’t even noticed them in passing. I would presume they’d be in the hair care aisle, hanging somewhere near the increasingly hard-to-find shampoo for normal hair. Not for color treated, or frosted, or highlighted, or streaked or even straightened…just plain ol’ normal hair!
Now I’m really not one for conspiracy theories, but was there some sort of subliminal campaign back in the 80’s, perpetrated by the greedy and powerful shampoo industry, that convinced us that unwashed hair was like un-brushed teeth or un-rolled-on armpits? Were shower caps seriously cutting into their business? Might there be a new George Clooney docudrama in our future?
And while we’re on the subject, what about swim caps? Of course I still see them on competitive swimmers…those crazed athletes who shave every hair off their bodies in the hopes of likewise shaving a millisecond off their time…but what about the rest of us? I certainly don’t like my hair turning green or drying out from chlorine or clogging up pool drains like my grandmother would tell me each and every time she squeezed my average sized head into the doll-sized, daisy-decorated swim cap she purchased at the local five and dime.
I’m not entirely sure the blood has ever fully returned to my brain.
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