Category — consumer culture

I’m not generally a big fan of shopping. With the exception of things that come in shiny or iridescent containers, I can’t be suckered into buying things I don’t need.

Of course, this sensible attitude goes right out the window when it comes to books, or art/office supplies.

So, the other day as I am walking around North Vancouver, I see a big group of smokers standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Normally this irritates me – I despise having to walk through clouds of smoke coming out of people’s mouths. I always want to yell at them, “Thanks for making my hair smell like the inside of your mouth, you cretin!”

But, this time, they were standing a few feet away from the entrance of an art store. So I thought, “I’ll just pop in here and have a look and when I leave, they will have left.” I was just escaping the cigarette smoke you understand. I couldn’t possibly be expected to just go around them, right? Right?

So anyhow, weak excuse in hand, I walk in.  Art stores are the perfect place to make your credit card company love you. All those pens, pencils, fancy paper, water colour paints, paint brushes and ink. I know right then and there that I am not leaving until I have purchased something. It doesn’t have to be much – a gum eraser, a mechanical pencil with neon pink leads, a small notebook – I’m not fussy, but I will be bringing something home with me.

I say hello to the woman sitting behind the counter and I hope to have the following exchange:

Me: Hello.
Her: Hi there. How are you?
Me: Good, thanks. You?
Her: Oh, can’t complain. If you need any help, let me know.
Me: OK, thanks.

This is my ideal shopping experience. Say hello, maybe tell me what’s on sale, and then leave me alone. I’ll ask for assistance if I need it – I’m good like that.

Sadly, this was not the experience I had. That part where she was supposed to say, “Oh, can’t complain. etc.”? It went more like this:

Her: Oh just feeling kind of crappy – one of those days, you know? My boyfriend’s daughter is thirteen and I’ve known her for, like, …well, she was born in…I can’t remember now, but I’ve known her, like, forever. Anyway, he wants her to play soccer, but she doesn’t want to and he can’t really afford it anyway, but he keeps pushing, you know? And I told him if you keep pushing her, you’re going to lose her. I mean, she’s really tiny, like not even five feet and her Dad is huge – like, nearly six feet tall and at least 225 pounds, so he can be really intimidating and she just talks back and says no, but he keeps bullying her anyway. So, I told him off, I was rude to him actually and I’m never like that, and he told me he didn’t want to hear my opinion, so I made him get out of my car…”

Even worse than listening to her personal life and that of her 225 pound boyfriend and his short-but-feisty 13 year old daughter, was how oblivious she was to my discomfort at hearing all this. I wandered away, not looking at her – she followed. I made totally non-committal noises in response to anything that sounded even vaguely like a question – she kept talking.  Finally another customer asked for her help, and I fled with a “seeyoulaterbyebyenow” and I hadn’t purchased a thing.

If this was a chain store, I could just go to a different location, or complain to a manager, or even just  hope that one day she’d be let go for scaring customers off, but this is an independent store – the sort of place I generally feel strongly about supporting – and the chances of her being fired are pretty much nil; she’s the owner’s daughter and, I believe, part-owner herself.

I wish I could say this time was the first time I’d had an uncomfortable experience shopping there, but it wasn’t. I’ve listened to rants on many things there: people who shop at the big art chain store, how much they despise the chain store and the most of the suppliers and all the jerks with art supply warehouses on the Internet who undercut their prices. I’ve also weathered unasked for opinions on politics, weather, local news and religion.

I’ve also been given what I call the “jammy-handed child” treatment: “Please don’t touch that paper. It’s expensive. We don’t want your finger prints on it.” Really? Sorry, but I buy paper based on how smooth it is – textured paper and pencil crayon look bloody awful together – if I’m going to ensure I’m making the right purchase, then I need to touch the paper. Period. You’d think I came in cradling a bucket of KFC under one arm while licking my fingers and making a beeline for the expensive paper so I could use it to wipe my mouth on.

At any rate, this latest display of un-professionalism has cemented my decision to not go back. I probably should have said something like, “I’m really not comfortable hearing this much about your personal life, but I hope it all works out for everyone involved.” But, even that seemed rude somehow and I couldn’t bring myself to do more than wait for a good opportunity to run.

Bottom line? I’m willing to pay more elsewhere – even a chain store – to have the sort of shopping experience I want.

I’m not sure why I thought of this old Clearasil commercial today, but I did.

This just seemed to naturally follow:

I am participating in CurlyWurlyGurly’s theme posting challenge for June: The WORST candy in the history of mankind has to be Hershey’s Eat-More bar.

The Eat-More bar is supposedly a “chewy dark toffee, peanut and chocolate” bar. But what you never hear about is how these bars are made – well, I am spilling my guts to the world now. No more secrets! This is how Eat-More is manufactured:

1. Go to work at candy bar factory.
2. Pick up random bits of toffee, peanuts and chocolate on the bottom of your boots.
3. Scrape boots off into the Eat-More bucket at the end of your shift.
4. Grave-yard shift workers press it into bars and sell it.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s an economical and environmentally friendly method for making candy, but even if their boots are clean; do you really want to eat candy that was on the floor? This defies the five second rule and is, quite frankly, unhygienic.

I did try to get a picture of it, but it sensed my great dislike for it and would not allow me to take its photo. All the photos were blurred and in one, I’m fairly certain I saw a cluster of peanut bits shaped like Satan. But, I am not one to disappoint my readers and I discovered the Candy Blog has a very nice and in-focus photo of it.

Besides which, the candy looks rather like a shiny turd with peanut bits embedded in it and this is a G rated blog. Someone has to think of the children.

My father would tell me I am a cretin for not loving these bars. He claims they are tasty, they keep the mail moving (though how that much sugar translates into fibre I will never know) and the number one reason to love Eat-More bars (according to dear old Dad) is folding the wrapper like so:

I tried eating a little piece of the bar – after all I have broadened my horizons somewhat since I was 7 years old – but, my refined adult palate wholeheartedly rejected the candy and went running straight into the arms of a 3 Musketeers bar.

Dad, if you’re reading this, I’m sure it’s Mum’s faulty genes that dictate my hatred for this candy. I still like beer if that helps.