I remember watching my mum getting dinner ready one night when she suddenly hauled out the scale. She dumped all the meat on it with the wadding to catch the liquid, carefully weighed it and wrote down the weight. She compared that weight to the weight on the packaging. She then weighed the wadding. As it was before 5pm, she reached for the phone book. After a quick search, she dialed a number. "Hi, I wanted to know what the acceptable amount of liquid is that can drain out of a piece of meat?" Yes, my mother had called weights and measures. And sure enough, the amount of liquid coming out of the meat was not acceptable. When my mother came off the phone, I asked for an explanation. It was short and sweet. "I paid so much a pound for this piece of meat. And this percentage of it is liquid. So I paid x amount for the liquid which is not what I thought I was buying." I got it. It was a type of customer fraud.
Weights and measures are wonderful. When you call, they take your complaint and tell if you if you're being reasonable. They then go into the store. No store wants weights and measures to come knocking. Weights and Measures will do a random audit over a period of time. They're checking to see if this is a one-off occurrence or a systematic pattern. Either way, when after weights and measures has been around, the store improves massively. Most stores fly close to the regulations. They go as close as they can without actually failing to follow them. When a customer complains, they realise they've flown too close to the line and start giving themselves a bigger margin of error. As a customer, it's just nice to know that your gut feeling about how much of a product you're getting can easily be verified. If you're wrong, then you're wrong. But if you're right, then it will quickly be sorted out and you will have much better service in the coming days.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
To Whom it May Concern
It seems that I have a new hobby. And it's one that I don't want and I don't enjoy. It makes my blood pressure go through the roof, I subject friends and family to an endless tirade and then when I've exhausted their patience, I phone the relevant company and complain bitterly.
Yes, I have become the type of customer that gets wild enough about an issue to create.
The latest upset was with Aeroplan and Air Canada. I recently flew across the Atlantic, returned and check my point balance. No new points. Thinking that that was odd, I waited and in a few weeks checked again. Nothing, so I submitted a missing point form. It returned today. My flight was ineligible. Taken back, I phoned Aeroplan. "There must be some mistake," I said, "I flew Air Canada. This is their program." The girl at the other end looked at my file, "Oh," she said, "you flew class k. That's not eligible. I'm so sorry. I get this all the time. I'll show you." So she showed me deep within the Aeroplan site, a nice little chart explaining that the one flight I managed to pick, doesn't get points. My internal voice went, WHAT! "How was I supposed to know this?" She basically insinuated that I had not done my research, that a lot of people didn't but that neither Aeroplan nor Air Canada made it clear. I took a deep breath, "Who do I need to talk to to point out that this should be made clear?" She paused, "Well, Aeroplan gives out the points but you book on the Air Canada site. So there really is no one to blame." She then helpfully gave me the complaint numbers for both orgainizations. I decided this was Air Canada's fault and have fired off an e-mail. I used the phrases, "I think it is deceitful that . . . . I think Air Canada has an obligation to" In hindsight, this may have been a bit dramatic. However, my blood pressure is still high. I'm convinced they're not following some law on transparency. Ideally, I want my points. However, I want them to change their web site. I'm tempted to become an activist.
I'm still waiting on a response for my complaint to Loblaws. Loblaws has stocking issues. I had trudged through the cold and snow to discover that they didn't have kidney beans and no idea when new ones were coming in. Apparently, they had had no eggs in the store on the previous day. The previous week, I had wanted onions. They had no onions. Well, they had organic onions. I needed onions, I wanted normal ones but I ended up having to get the expensive ones. The produce section is a mess. I've recently started looking into getting a weekly basket of vegetables and fruit from a local store that specializes in organic. My private conviction is that organic food is a new type of classism. The poor can't afford it so the better off demonstrate their higher standard of living by buying more expensive food. This is on top of the rising cost of food caused by other factors. But I digress. I'm looking into alternative means of food because Loblaws is a mess. I pointed out their shoddy supply chain and how for a store that wants to be a one stop shopping experience, they weren't cutting it. Who wants to go to a grocery store three times a week to see if an item has come in? No one has that type of time. I'm still waiting for a response.
Time before that, I had seen a production that turned out to be entirely different than publicized. I was aiming to get my money back. Instead, I got tickets to a production I wanted to see and got an upgrade in ticket. So far this has been the only success story.
I think I have the training to get results. I worked in the fast food industry. I know the type of complaints that are successful and how to spot a scam. I know that the person you can reach isn't the person you should be yelling at. They have no power except to apologize. They would rather you didn't yell at them. So I don't. You can't. Judging by my method of dealing with complaints, they have a sure fire way to make sure you don't yell at them. They will agree with everything you say but point out that the policy is such and such and there is nothing you can do. So I find out to whom I should be presenting my case, and present it in a calm but obviously annoyed manner.
I find e-mail isn't very effective at this. I think this is why most companies use it. Trying to find a company's phone number is like looking for gold - great when you find it but nigh impossible to find.
Yes, I have become the type of customer that gets wild enough about an issue to create.
The latest upset was with Aeroplan and Air Canada. I recently flew across the Atlantic, returned and check my point balance. No new points. Thinking that that was odd, I waited and in a few weeks checked again. Nothing, so I submitted a missing point form. It returned today. My flight was ineligible. Taken back, I phoned Aeroplan. "There must be some mistake," I said, "I flew Air Canada. This is their program." The girl at the other end looked at my file, "Oh," she said, "you flew class k. That's not eligible. I'm so sorry. I get this all the time. I'll show you." So she showed me deep within the Aeroplan site, a nice little chart explaining that the one flight I managed to pick, doesn't get points. My internal voice went, WHAT! "How was I supposed to know this?" She basically insinuated that I had not done my research, that a lot of people didn't but that neither Aeroplan nor Air Canada made it clear. I took a deep breath, "Who do I need to talk to to point out that this should be made clear?" She paused, "Well, Aeroplan gives out the points but you book on the Air Canada site. So there really is no one to blame." She then helpfully gave me the complaint numbers for both orgainizations. I decided this was Air Canada's fault and have fired off an e-mail. I used the phrases, "I think it is deceitful that . . . . I think Air Canada has an obligation to" In hindsight, this may have been a bit dramatic. However, my blood pressure is still high. I'm convinced they're not following some law on transparency. Ideally, I want my points. However, I want them to change their web site. I'm tempted to become an activist.
I'm still waiting on a response for my complaint to Loblaws. Loblaws has stocking issues. I had trudged through the cold and snow to discover that they didn't have kidney beans and no idea when new ones were coming in. Apparently, they had had no eggs in the store on the previous day. The previous week, I had wanted onions. They had no onions. Well, they had organic onions. I needed onions, I wanted normal ones but I ended up having to get the expensive ones. The produce section is a mess. I've recently started looking into getting a weekly basket of vegetables and fruit from a local store that specializes in organic. My private conviction is that organic food is a new type of classism. The poor can't afford it so the better off demonstrate their higher standard of living by buying more expensive food. This is on top of the rising cost of food caused by other factors. But I digress. I'm looking into alternative means of food because Loblaws is a mess. I pointed out their shoddy supply chain and how for a store that wants to be a one stop shopping experience, they weren't cutting it. Who wants to go to a grocery store three times a week to see if an item has come in? No one has that type of time. I'm still waiting for a response.
Time before that, I had seen a production that turned out to be entirely different than publicized. I was aiming to get my money back. Instead, I got tickets to a production I wanted to see and got an upgrade in ticket. So far this has been the only success story.
I think I have the training to get results. I worked in the fast food industry. I know the type of complaints that are successful and how to spot a scam. I know that the person you can reach isn't the person you should be yelling at. They have no power except to apologize. They would rather you didn't yell at them. So I don't. You can't. Judging by my method of dealing with complaints, they have a sure fire way to make sure you don't yell at them. They will agree with everything you say but point out that the policy is such and such and there is nothing you can do. So I find out to whom I should be presenting my case, and present it in a calm but obviously annoyed manner.
I find e-mail isn't very effective at this. I think this is why most companies use it. Trying to find a company's phone number is like looking for gold - great when you find it but nigh impossible to find.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Toy Mice
It quickly became clear that my apartment, complete in just about every other respect, was missing one key element - a live mouse; in my cat's opinion, that is. I was thoroughly relieved that I could find no evidence of mice. The mouse problem was dealt with but I was still left with the problem of the mouser.
Thus I found myself in the grocery store trying to decide which of the cat toys would most appeal to a dissatisfied feline. I was drawn to the fish toys. They had a fish on a string which was attached to a stick that could be stuck to the wall. Endless hours of fun, the packet assured me. I was pretty sure the last time, she'd had a similar toy, she had destroyed it within the week. Still, one might as well try. I also found the fish carcass endearing. It had a blue plush head with painted on black eyes and a nice smile. It's bones were a nice yellow made of a heavily pressed foam. The head was full of catnip and the body seemed ideal for a cat to pick up and carry to a new location. I was sure she was going to love it. They also had packets of toy mice. There was no way I was putting something that looked remotely like a mouse on my floor. I didn't care that they were white with fluorescent pink, blue and green bodies. The shape and texture seemed to be that of a miniature mouse. Gingerly I picked the packet up between my forefinger and my thumb. Closing my eyes , I placed the packet in my basket. I surpressed the shudder that made its way down my back.
Once home, I eagerly ripped open the packaging of the fish on a string. I quickly assembled the pole and inserted it into the suction cup. I then discovered, just as quickly, that it would not stick to the wall, the closet door, the kitchen door, in fact any door, the table, the cupboards, my forehead. It would not adhere to any surface. The endless hours of fun seemed more likely to be causing me endless hours of frustration. My cat sat in the middle of the room and watched me bemused, as I tried to stick this object to any surface. In the end I gave up.
Onto the catnip fish carcass. She quite simply was not interested in it at all. I pointed out its smile and the advantages of the pressed foam body. She yawned and began to clean herself. Daunted, I picked the mice package out of the bag.
With some hesitation, I removed the pink mouse from the packet and dropped it on the floor. Instant reaction. The mouse was batted and pounced across the floor to come to a sliding halt under the couch. I retrieved it. It then was taken back across the room, picked up and killed to be picked up and taken elsewhere. The mouse lasted four hours before I could no longer locate it. It was not under the couch, the chair, the desk, the freezer or the chest of drawers. In fact it was not under any piece of furniture that I had already retrieved it from under. That was a week ago. I still haven't found it.
So that evening, I removed the blue mouse from the package. I heard it being killed all night. In the morning I couldn't find it. So I removed the green mouse from the package. Within 30 seconds, it was inbetween the stove and fridge. I didn't think anything could fit under the stove or the fridge. They've barely 3/4 of an inch of the ground. In fishing out the green mouse, I fished out the blue mouse from under the fridge, two empty spools of thread, several elastics and a small ball. Clearly, my cat can fit quite a lot under the fridge.
I've also discovered that the areas in which the baseboards don't quite touch the floor are just big enough for a determined cat to fit a toy mouse. I've realised that it is now my lot in life to find and retrieve toy mice from underneath which ever piece of furniture, they have skidded under. It seems that out of a total of five mice, I will only ever be able to locate two at any time. These two will not be consistent.
My cat has warmed up to the fish on the string. She enjoyed batting it and chasing it as I waved it around for a while. Then, I dismantled the stick so that only a five inch piece remained attached to the string. This amuses her much more. No matter which end, she picks up, something will follow her as she drags it. She becomes so fascinated in watching the moving object that she stops watching where she is going. I now have a cat that will walk into objects while dragging a fish attached to a string.
I try not to watch when she plays with the mouse. I know that she's practicing. I know that she's creating situations in her head where the mouse ducks to the right and she goes to the left and cuts it off at the pass. She's attacked it on carpet, she's attacked it on the tile and she's attacked it on the wood. I fear she's taking notes. Note 1 - easier to get traction on the carpet. Wood seems to be more slippery than tile. Further testing needed to verify.
I fear that at some point, she will have finished experimenting and will expect me to provide her with a live specimen so that she may put her practice into action. Right now, she has to stop letting them escape under furniture. I refuse to fish a live mouse out from under the fridge with a wooden spoon.
Thus I found myself in the grocery store trying to decide which of the cat toys would most appeal to a dissatisfied feline. I was drawn to the fish toys. They had a fish on a string which was attached to a stick that could be stuck to the wall. Endless hours of fun, the packet assured me. I was pretty sure the last time, she'd had a similar toy, she had destroyed it within the week. Still, one might as well try. I also found the fish carcass endearing. It had a blue plush head with painted on black eyes and a nice smile. It's bones were a nice yellow made of a heavily pressed foam. The head was full of catnip and the body seemed ideal for a cat to pick up and carry to a new location. I was sure she was going to love it. They also had packets of toy mice. There was no way I was putting something that looked remotely like a mouse on my floor. I didn't care that they were white with fluorescent pink, blue and green bodies. The shape and texture seemed to be that of a miniature mouse. Gingerly I picked the packet up between my forefinger and my thumb. Closing my eyes , I placed the packet in my basket. I surpressed the shudder that made its way down my back.
Once home, I eagerly ripped open the packaging of the fish on a string. I quickly assembled the pole and inserted it into the suction cup. I then discovered, just as quickly, that it would not stick to the wall, the closet door, the kitchen door, in fact any door, the table, the cupboards, my forehead. It would not adhere to any surface. The endless hours of fun seemed more likely to be causing me endless hours of frustration. My cat sat in the middle of the room and watched me bemused, as I tried to stick this object to any surface. In the end I gave up.
Onto the catnip fish carcass. She quite simply was not interested in it at all. I pointed out its smile and the advantages of the pressed foam body. She yawned and began to clean herself. Daunted, I picked the mice package out of the bag.
With some hesitation, I removed the pink mouse from the packet and dropped it on the floor. Instant reaction. The mouse was batted and pounced across the floor to come to a sliding halt under the couch. I retrieved it. It then was taken back across the room, picked up and killed to be picked up and taken elsewhere. The mouse lasted four hours before I could no longer locate it. It was not under the couch, the chair, the desk, the freezer or the chest of drawers. In fact it was not under any piece of furniture that I had already retrieved it from under. That was a week ago. I still haven't found it.
So that evening, I removed the blue mouse from the package. I heard it being killed all night. In the morning I couldn't find it. So I removed the green mouse from the package. Within 30 seconds, it was inbetween the stove and fridge. I didn't think anything could fit under the stove or the fridge. They've barely 3/4 of an inch of the ground. In fishing out the green mouse, I fished out the blue mouse from under the fridge, two empty spools of thread, several elastics and a small ball. Clearly, my cat can fit quite a lot under the fridge.
I've also discovered that the areas in which the baseboards don't quite touch the floor are just big enough for a determined cat to fit a toy mouse. I've realised that it is now my lot in life to find and retrieve toy mice from underneath which ever piece of furniture, they have skidded under. It seems that out of a total of five mice, I will only ever be able to locate two at any time. These two will not be consistent.
My cat has warmed up to the fish on the string. She enjoyed batting it and chasing it as I waved it around for a while. Then, I dismantled the stick so that only a five inch piece remained attached to the string. This amuses her much more. No matter which end, she picks up, something will follow her as she drags it. She becomes so fascinated in watching the moving object that she stops watching where she is going. I now have a cat that will walk into objects while dragging a fish attached to a string.
I try not to watch when she plays with the mouse. I know that she's practicing. I know that she's creating situations in her head where the mouse ducks to the right and she goes to the left and cuts it off at the pass. She's attacked it on carpet, she's attacked it on the tile and she's attacked it on the wood. I fear she's taking notes. Note 1 - easier to get traction on the carpet. Wood seems to be more slippery than tile. Further testing needed to verify.
I fear that at some point, she will have finished experimenting and will expect me to provide her with a live specimen so that she may put her practice into action. Right now, she has to stop letting them escape under furniture. I refuse to fish a live mouse out from under the fridge with a wooden spoon.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Of Mice and Cats
When I found a dead mouse in my apartment, I thought I had a problem. I spent the week-end checking for signs of mice. I tore my apartment apart and cleaned every inch of it. I found no signs. If it hadn't been for the dead mouse, I would not have known there had been one in my apartment.
I was surprised to find the mouse. My apartment is on the top floor of the building. It's a feature of our building that lots of cats and dogs live here. With the number of cats in between the ground and my apartment, the mouse should have been dead long before it arrived.
It turns out in the end that the mouse was only the beginning of a problem. Not the mouse problem that I had feared, but rather a cat problem. It seems that my overweight and rather lazy cat discovered her true calling - to be an excellent mouser. At first I was nervous about her new tendency to look into corners and under furniture. She can hear far better than me and I began to imagine mice were lurking all about me. Then I realised that when she couldn't find anything, she was coming and chirping at me.
These was a type of chirp that I had not heard since she was a proper kitten. Back then it had meant, "I'm bored, entertain me, play with me." It turns out that it still means that. Quickly improvising a toy for her, I created a ball out of paper which I then flicked towards her. To my astonishment, rather than batting it back, she ran and hid behind a piece of furniture. She crept round the furniture and peered around the corner. Intrigued, I backed my ball behind the ottoman and flicked it out into the open, but away not towards her. She bolted out and ran after the ball, batting it with her paws until it came to rest against the wall. She turned and looked at me as if to say, "Um, it stopped moving. Do something about it." Slight pause. "please."
l went and picked it up and batted it towards her. She just looked at me and did not move. I went and retrieved the ball, and took it behind a corner of the furniture. She watched to see what I was doing and then turned her back. I flicked the ball out and it started to go some distance. Quick as a flash, she turned and chased the ball. "Now you're showing off!" And she was. She demonstrated her mousing technique to me. One hides, crouches and seems unconcerned in the affairs of others and then just when the mouse thinks the coast is clear, you pounce. At this point the demonstration falls flat and she kinda looks at the ball and at me, "Well you get the idea, there is slightly more to it than this but look at what I'm working with. It gives up so easily."
I have a mouser who has no mice.
I was surprised to find the mouse. My apartment is on the top floor of the building. It's a feature of our building that lots of cats and dogs live here. With the number of cats in between the ground and my apartment, the mouse should have been dead long before it arrived.
It turns out in the end that the mouse was only the beginning of a problem. Not the mouse problem that I had feared, but rather a cat problem. It seems that my overweight and rather lazy cat discovered her true calling - to be an excellent mouser. At first I was nervous about her new tendency to look into corners and under furniture. She can hear far better than me and I began to imagine mice were lurking all about me. Then I realised that when she couldn't find anything, she was coming and chirping at me.
These was a type of chirp that I had not heard since she was a proper kitten. Back then it had meant, "I'm bored, entertain me, play with me." It turns out that it still means that. Quickly improvising a toy for her, I created a ball out of paper which I then flicked towards her. To my astonishment, rather than batting it back, she ran and hid behind a piece of furniture. She crept round the furniture and peered around the corner. Intrigued, I backed my ball behind the ottoman and flicked it out into the open, but away not towards her. She bolted out and ran after the ball, batting it with her paws until it came to rest against the wall. She turned and looked at me as if to say, "Um, it stopped moving. Do something about it." Slight pause. "please."
l went and picked it up and batted it towards her. She just looked at me and did not move. I went and retrieved the ball, and took it behind a corner of the furniture. She watched to see what I was doing and then turned her back. I flicked the ball out and it started to go some distance. Quick as a flash, she turned and chased the ball. "Now you're showing off!" And she was. She demonstrated her mousing technique to me. One hides, crouches and seems unconcerned in the affairs of others and then just when the mouse thinks the coast is clear, you pounce. At this point the demonstration falls flat and she kinda looks at the ball and at me, "Well you get the idea, there is slightly more to it than this but look at what I'm working with. It gives up so easily."
I have a mouser who has no mice.
Ma Jupe Favorite
It's been a long time since I had what I could unequivocally say was my favourite skirt. Favourite skirts aren't like any other item of clothing. I know that my favourite sweater will make me feel better when I'm not feeling well and that my favourite jeans are as comfortable as can be, but a special skirt is much more.
At first glance it seems rather simple, nothing to write home about. And then the wearer moves. The skirt gracefully swishes as she walks and then as she descends a staircase, the skirt catches the wind ever so slightly and flutters up so that it floats. The skirt is fluid.
Most little girls know the type of dress or skirt. It's the type where they stick their arms out and twirl around. And as they spin, the dress comes up and out so that they look like a spinning flower. They instinctively understand that a dress with more movement is much more fun - plus it has the added bonus that you can run in it without much effort. A straight skirt is a serious impediment on the playground.
Recently, such a skirt made its way into my closet. It drapes very softly. It swishes just so. It floats upon a staircase. It's wool so it's horribly practical for winter. It's the type of skirt that ensures a good day. Everything could go wrong that day but the fact that you are wearing a special skirt will give you a little glow inside.
I can't remember what I did at work today. I know I "moved things" and I "sent things up" and that I accomplished something. I do know however that I wore my special skirt, and that when I twirled in the bathroom, it spun out, just enough. I had a fabulous day. I wore my favourite skirt.
At first glance it seems rather simple, nothing to write home about. And then the wearer moves. The skirt gracefully swishes as she walks and then as she descends a staircase, the skirt catches the wind ever so slightly and flutters up so that it floats. The skirt is fluid.
Most little girls know the type of dress or skirt. It's the type where they stick their arms out and twirl around. And as they spin, the dress comes up and out so that they look like a spinning flower. They instinctively understand that a dress with more movement is much more fun - plus it has the added bonus that you can run in it without much effort. A straight skirt is a serious impediment on the playground.
Recently, such a skirt made its way into my closet. It drapes very softly. It swishes just so. It floats upon a staircase. It's wool so it's horribly practical for winter. It's the type of skirt that ensures a good day. Everything could go wrong that day but the fact that you are wearing a special skirt will give you a little glow inside.
I can't remember what I did at work today. I know I "moved things" and I "sent things up" and that I accomplished something. I do know however that I wore my special skirt, and that when I twirled in the bathroom, it spun out, just enough. I had a fabulous day. I wore my favourite skirt.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Survival of the Fitest
In my absence, there had been a terrible battle. A battle fought to the bitter end that had tested the skills of both combatants to the utmost. I could imagine the scene as it played out across my apartment. The one running as though its life depended on it and the other waiting, watching and calculating. The fight had been relatively quick as there was almost no evidence to attest to its occurrence. There was an unexplained stain, some mystery dirt and that was all. If it hadn't been for the corpse, no one would have been any the wiser. But there was a corpse and I found it, stiff as a board. My cat has earned her first mousing badge.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Just say no, just say no
"Ouff," I clutched at the clothes that had been thrust into my arms. Wide-eyed with shock and apprehensive about where this was going, I followed the assistant around the store as she went from rack to rack, talking non-stop.
"You need a suit? This is a very cute suit, straight from Paris. The fashion won't come here until next winter." She picks out the jacket and skirt in my size and hands them to me. Still talking she moves onto the next rack. "Now these are veeery nice pants, you need black pants? yes." Without waiting for an answer, I find my self holding a pair of pants. Occasionally I manage to squeak out, "I've got a pair of pants like that," or "I can't wear sparkles at work." I'm not sure if I can or not. I do know there is no way I can take myself seriously wearing anything with a metallic thread in it. The number of clothes that have been put aside for me to try on is growing. Just when it looks as though she's finished, she claps her hands and says, "Riight, now we go upstairs." I manage a wane smile and follow up behind her. In my head, I'm freaking out. There's an upstairs?
Like the excellent saleslady that she is, she asked me what I was looking for and I said I needed a pair of black wool pants that were lined. Somewhere in the pile of clothes waiting for me to try then on, there is a pair of white wool lined pants. I'm hoping one of the three pairs of black pants is wool. I'm hoping to get out with my wallet in good repair. All I had wanted was a pair of pants. Now I've got several suits, both pant and skirt, as well as sweaters and tops to try on. And this was just from downstairs, upstairs I accumulate another skirt, its jacket, a pair of jeans and a sweater in my arms. I demur before we head into the shoes. She nodds, "We do shoes at the end." She takes the pile from my arms and leads me back downstairs.
"Heere is the changeroom!" So, now I am to try it all on. However, this is not my show, I am merely the model. She picks out a pair of black pants, and a top. "Try these on!" It's a command so I do it. There are shoes in the change room which I have been instructed to wear. I teeter out on the heels where I am to be appraised. Currently there are two sales assistants, a young girl and my mother. My mother has been placed in a chair and is looking bemused. The young girl belongs in some capacity to the shop.
The fit of the pants is granted approval and the sales lady takes another top from the clothes reserved for me to try the on. "Now leave those pants on and try this on with them." So I do. The top is a cute wool top that has a scoop neck and is fluid through the body with cream detailing. It's pretty. I am handed a turtle neck and told to try it on under the top that I currently have on. At this stage, I realise that I am to get each outfit made a gazillion different ways. And on it goes, "Wear this skirt with this top and this jacket." "Leave the skirt on and wear this blouse, put this jacket on top." I keep the same bottom on and try on different tops, sweaters and jackets. I leave jackets and on try them with skirts and tops. I have necklaces draped over my neck, scarves artfully arranged on a jacket and the promise of the appropriate footwear. I feel like Barbie. I do not feel empowered. I do know that this lady is in charge. Perhaps Barbie does make little girls feel empowered. I make a mental note to think this through later, right now I'm being given yet another complete outfit.
If it doesn't fit well, "Take it off, that won't do!" Occasionally I reject pieces due to personal peeves. But the vast majority of it fits and it fits well and looks even better. I get to the stage where as I pull an item on, I hope it doesn't fit so I am not given ten more things to try on with it. I get lucky a few times and I am able to say authoritatively, "this doesn't fit" and hand it back out.
The rest is going into a "maybe" pile. My "maybe" pile allows me to rank items according to how much I like it and how much use I will get out of it. It also allows for me to do a mental calculation so that I am prepared and satisfied when I head to the cash register. By the time I'm finished, I can't remember what's in the pile. I'm about to start weeding the pile when it is gathered up and swept off to the cash register. I look at my mum in horror. She looks back at me but she is powerless to do anything.
I take a deep breath and remember that I have rent to pay next month. I will refuse to be bullied.
The clothes have been hung on a clothes post at the cash register. The lady starts holding up items. There's a cute plaid skirt that all the sales staff loved and I was indifferent about. I shake my head, "no." Behind the skirt is a top that I didn't try on. It is now gone too as it was to go with the skirt. So we weed. I agreeing to items that I loved that would be useful. And we're down to a jacket, a pair of jeans, a pair of black pants, and a sweater. I take a breath. "What would be the final total of this?" I watch the calculator and realise that I am not happy. I look at my mum. She's maintaining her poker face. I ask to see the black pants.
The sales lady decides that I need coaching. "What are you going to wear more? these black pants or the jeans? the pants, no? We leave the jeans." I flip the content label on the pants. They are not wool and they are not lined. I point this out and the fact that it's freezing cold where I live. "Alright then, you had better leave the pants and take the jeans." I do a quick calcualtion. "I'll leave the jeans and the pants." She looks at me. European sales staff are tough. They don't give up a sale easily. I looked back hoping that I looked determined rather than petrified. She shrugged her shoulders. "Ok. you get the jacket and the sweater." I could tell that she thought I was an idiot shopper. Not the most useful out of what I had tried on. However, they were the best pieces for mixing into my wardrobe. And they would round out my wardrobe very nicely.
I came home in slight shock. I wasn't used to doing a personal fashion show. I needed a drink. I've started doing two shopping expeditions a year : one for summer and one for winter and avoiding stores like the plague the rest of the year. And now I know why, I can't take that level of intensity on a more regular basis. It's too intimidating.
"You need a suit? This is a very cute suit, straight from Paris. The fashion won't come here until next winter." She picks out the jacket and skirt in my size and hands them to me. Still talking she moves onto the next rack. "Now these are veeery nice pants, you need black pants? yes." Without waiting for an answer, I find my self holding a pair of pants. Occasionally I manage to squeak out, "I've got a pair of pants like that," or "I can't wear sparkles at work." I'm not sure if I can or not. I do know there is no way I can take myself seriously wearing anything with a metallic thread in it. The number of clothes that have been put aside for me to try on is growing. Just when it looks as though she's finished, she claps her hands and says, "Riight, now we go upstairs." I manage a wane smile and follow up behind her. In my head, I'm freaking out. There's an upstairs?
Like the excellent saleslady that she is, she asked me what I was looking for and I said I needed a pair of black wool pants that were lined. Somewhere in the pile of clothes waiting for me to try then on, there is a pair of white wool lined pants. I'm hoping one of the three pairs of black pants is wool. I'm hoping to get out with my wallet in good repair. All I had wanted was a pair of pants. Now I've got several suits, both pant and skirt, as well as sweaters and tops to try on. And this was just from downstairs, upstairs I accumulate another skirt, its jacket, a pair of jeans and a sweater in my arms. I demur before we head into the shoes. She nodds, "We do shoes at the end." She takes the pile from my arms and leads me back downstairs.
"Heere is the changeroom!" So, now I am to try it all on. However, this is not my show, I am merely the model. She picks out a pair of black pants, and a top. "Try these on!" It's a command so I do it. There are shoes in the change room which I have been instructed to wear. I teeter out on the heels where I am to be appraised. Currently there are two sales assistants, a young girl and my mother. My mother has been placed in a chair and is looking bemused. The young girl belongs in some capacity to the shop.
The fit of the pants is granted approval and the sales lady takes another top from the clothes reserved for me to try the on. "Now leave those pants on and try this on with them." So I do. The top is a cute wool top that has a scoop neck and is fluid through the body with cream detailing. It's pretty. I am handed a turtle neck and told to try it on under the top that I currently have on. At this stage, I realise that I am to get each outfit made a gazillion different ways. And on it goes, "Wear this skirt with this top and this jacket." "Leave the skirt on and wear this blouse, put this jacket on top." I keep the same bottom on and try on different tops, sweaters and jackets. I leave jackets and on try them with skirts and tops. I have necklaces draped over my neck, scarves artfully arranged on a jacket and the promise of the appropriate footwear. I feel like Barbie. I do not feel empowered. I do know that this lady is in charge. Perhaps Barbie does make little girls feel empowered. I make a mental note to think this through later, right now I'm being given yet another complete outfit.
If it doesn't fit well, "Take it off, that won't do!" Occasionally I reject pieces due to personal peeves. But the vast majority of it fits and it fits well and looks even better. I get to the stage where as I pull an item on, I hope it doesn't fit so I am not given ten more things to try on with it. I get lucky a few times and I am able to say authoritatively, "this doesn't fit" and hand it back out.
The rest is going into a "maybe" pile. My "maybe" pile allows me to rank items according to how much I like it and how much use I will get out of it. It also allows for me to do a mental calculation so that I am prepared and satisfied when I head to the cash register. By the time I'm finished, I can't remember what's in the pile. I'm about to start weeding the pile when it is gathered up and swept off to the cash register. I look at my mum in horror. She looks back at me but she is powerless to do anything.
I take a deep breath and remember that I have rent to pay next month. I will refuse to be bullied.
The clothes have been hung on a clothes post at the cash register. The lady starts holding up items. There's a cute plaid skirt that all the sales staff loved and I was indifferent about. I shake my head, "no." Behind the skirt is a top that I didn't try on. It is now gone too as it was to go with the skirt. So we weed. I agreeing to items that I loved that would be useful. And we're down to a jacket, a pair of jeans, a pair of black pants, and a sweater. I take a breath. "What would be the final total of this?" I watch the calculator and realise that I am not happy. I look at my mum. She's maintaining her poker face. I ask to see the black pants.
The sales lady decides that I need coaching. "What are you going to wear more? these black pants or the jeans? the pants, no? We leave the jeans." I flip the content label on the pants. They are not wool and they are not lined. I point this out and the fact that it's freezing cold where I live. "Alright then, you had better leave the pants and take the jeans." I do a quick calcualtion. "I'll leave the jeans and the pants." She looks at me. European sales staff are tough. They don't give up a sale easily. I looked back hoping that I looked determined rather than petrified. She shrugged her shoulders. "Ok. you get the jacket and the sweater." I could tell that she thought I was an idiot shopper. Not the most useful out of what I had tried on. However, they were the best pieces for mixing into my wardrobe. And they would round out my wardrobe very nicely.
I came home in slight shock. I wasn't used to doing a personal fashion show. I needed a drink. I've started doing two shopping expeditions a year : one for summer and one for winter and avoiding stores like the plague the rest of the year. And now I know why, I can't take that level of intensity on a more regular basis. It's too intimidating.