A few weeks ago I started to write a post about my resolve not to purchase any more fancy journals, because they were becoming a barrier to my writing for various reasons. Then I thought, “Ms. Typist, get real. Nobody wants to hear your inane fancy-journal theories,” and I scrapped the post. I had bought a plain, lined school notebook some time ago that I’ve been scribbling in, and my no-fancy-journal will power has been strong….up until Friday. Friday destroyed my last shred of resolve. I shall explain: Every quarter, I have an all-day, off-site meeting with my colleagues at the other hospitals who do the same job that I do. There’s only four of us throughout the system, so we have to stick together. We take turns hosting these little shindigs, in which we get together and eat lunch and talk about…business things. And sometimes there is shopping for...business purposes. My colleague who set this one up arranged to have us go to a wholesale art and gift outlet in the depths of the industrial district that the owner agreed to open by appointment just for us. I’m not really a big shop-for-pleasure person, and I didn’t need anything, but I thought it would be fun to look at jewelry and art and pretty things.
What I did not expect were three huge aisles dedicated entirely to—you guessed it--fancy journals. Beautiful, shiny, sleek, artistic journals, some with gold leafing, and all at wholesale prices. At first I thought I was having a near-death experience and had drifted into a custom-designed heaven. Then I was certain it was a trap. This is how they were going to get me. They would lure me into a fancy-journal paradise and then, while I was too entranced by embossed leather to notice my surroundings, they would put the hood over my head and haul me off. I was stunned. As my colleagues roamed the kitchen-supply and handbag areas, I remained in the fancy-journal section, poring over one gorgeously-designed book after another and fighting down the mild panic that arose from having too many choices. As a warning, I texted Mr. Typist and told him that I could not be held responsible for my actions.
In the end, the damage wasn’t too bad. I limited myself to three, pictured here:
And I bought a gorgeous set of peacock notecards, to which Mr. Typist had the audacity to say, “What are you going to do with those? You never send cards.” That is so beside the point! They are pretty and that’s all that matters when you are doing recreational shopping at a wholesale outlet.
In grimmer shopping news, I came home from the grocery store today in a bad mood partly because I was SWH (shopping while hungry), and partly because of the atrocious customer service I encountered at the meat counter. I’m never one to ask for the manager, no matter how egregiously poor service is, but I actually briefly considered it this time. I had already waited ten minutes for someone to show up at the fish counter to cut me some Sockeye—fine, I get it, the weekends are busy—but then I went to the meat counter to get bacon. The one clerk behind the counter was absorbed in some activity, and I had to speak up to get his attention. “Excuse me, can I get some bacon?” He looked annoyed and said, “Yeah, but it will be a minute.” Then he continued whatever meat-related project he was working on. I waited a few more minutes, and eventually he wandered off get a knife, then disappeared into the back, never to return--all the time while I was standing there politely waiting for him to actually provide service to a paying customer. What a fool I was.
As is my usual MO, I held in all of my anger, and when I got home, I had an outburst at Mr. Typist that sounded something like this: “I don’t care what that guy’s project was. Unless you are performing CPR on a baby, you drop whatever it is you are doing to provide service to a paying customer!” Mr. Typist had many questions. What if it’s an elderly woman getting the CPR? What if it’s someone our age? Can I break this down into a scalable formula? And so on and so on. Bottom line is, I stand by my assertion. I am willing to forgo being served if you are performing a life-saving procedure on an infant, otherwise, I expect my damn pound of bacon.
My 80’s musical nostalgia series continues with the most 80’s video ever: “Come on Eileen” by Dexy’s Midnight Runners. It’s so dang fun and lively!