“It’s a new thing called ‘online shopping’,” cited the perky, 24-year old’s report that was actually published by a real media outlet, “and many people will be giving thanks to it this year for saving them more time that they can spend with their families on what has traditionally been the busiest shopping weekend of the year.”

Completely inept to the fact that online sales have been chipping away at the significance of Black Friday for years, Sebastine comically explained to actual viewers of the local TV station that instead of standing in lines, shoppers might this year do the bulk of their holiday shopping “in their pajamas” as she demonstrated purchasing a copy of The Devil Wears Prada from Amazon.com that she looks forward to receiving in plenty of time to give as a gift for her older sister, Heidi.

“And there – with just a few simple clicks,” the inexplicably proud journalist said as she smiled cluelessly into the camera, “my Christmas list is one present closer to completion, and I didn’t even have to set foot outside!”

After talking over footage of light traffic that she had captured with the help of cameraman Scott Cloud at the Westfield Southcenter earlier that afternoon, Sebastine unabashedly closed her report with a clever shot from her own bedroom where pink bunny slippers peeked out from beneath the sheets while she happily reiterated her line earlier about doing her own shopping from the comforts of her bedroom as if the first mainstream e-commerce transactions hadn’t happened when she was barely two years old.

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“No,” he replies timidly, “I think it was the guy in the room next to me.”

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“I don’t know what I was thinking,” the man was quoted as saying amid rocking back and forth frustratedly from one foot to the other while the woman who he loved perused countless racks of blouses and other girl things discounted at up to 60% off.

Over an hour into their time in the same goddamn store, it quickly became clear that one-sided tensions were rising as the man defeatedly muttered, “I’m just going to go sit over at that little table with the kids and color for a while…” as his spouse continued her quest for quality wearables at affordable prices completely unconcerned with her husband’s overly dramatic suffering.

As she finally entered the checkout line with her emasculated husband in tow to carry the spoils of her multi-hour shopping endeavor, the woman told him with a patronizingly satisfied grin, “If you behave just a little longer, maybe we’ll get one of those cookies that you like when we’re done…”

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As I’m strolling down the main part of the huge complex, my eyes come across a Victoria’s Secret store. I glance to that direction, for absolutely no reason. Okay, there is a reason, it’s the enormous poster of some beautiful Victoria’s Secret angel attempting to sell some skimpy lingerie.

I admire the sight and in my view appears one of the most angelic faces I’ve ever seen. It was a woman, about 5’8″, 115 lbs., sandy brown hair and a great smile. She was employed there as an associate. I stop dead in my tracks and notice that the store is fairly empty from customers.

This is my chance. I’m going to ask her out.

For the next several minutes I ponder my attack. There is absolutely no reason for me to walk into this store, as I’m alone. The only reason for me to enter is the sole purpose of shopping for my significant other. But if I do that, then this woman that I wish to ask out will think I’m dating somebody. And if I do walk in, she will most likely know the reason why. So what do I do?

I think about the situation and find no answer.

Then it hits me. “Just go ask her out.” A voice in my head chimes these simple, yet magical words.

I make my way up to the entrance and lock the woman in my view. She smiles at me and looks away, seeing that a co-worker, another woman, wants to talk to her. The two converse for a moment. I can’t hear what is being said because the two are still a good distance away.

As I inch my way closer, I begin to hear bits of the conversation. The words become clear. The woman I wish to ask out says, “I love that place. My boyfriend and I go there all the time.” Her boyfriend, the two words that alter my plan.

Hearing this, my first instinct is to turn around and leave. There’s only one problem, I’m right next to them. When I finally stop, the two women look at me. My eyes bulge.

Thoughts race in my mind, thinking of a way to not make myself look like an idiot.

“Can I help you?” the woman I want to go out with asks.

“Uh,” I stumble. I catch myself and proceed. “You’re about the same size as my girlfriend. Can you try something on for me?”

The only reason why I say this is because I once saw it in a movie and the clerk complied.

The woman, embarrassed, but slightly intrigued, smiles and replies, “I really can’t do that.”

I urge her on. “I just want to make sure it’s a perfect fit. If you could do this for me, it would really help me out.”

She looks around to see if anyone is present.

Nervously, she backs away. But the flattery is still there.

“I don’t know. I just don’t think I should,” she remarks.

“Please, I would really appreciate it if you did,” I say, trying one last time. By now, every ounce of so-called charm is expended.

The woman smiles. I break her down. She then looks at me and says, “I would love to try this on…but this is a dildo, sir.”

“I know, just put it in your mouth and in your ass for a minute,” I beg.

And as I’m getting thrown out, I smile to myself knowing that I still have it.

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But the problem is, my appetite for fast food is enormous. I can’t help it. I’d like to eat healthy, I try to eat healthy, but it’s just so easy to implement an ordering system that consists of just numbers, like a number one or something.

I love Long John Silver’s. However, I hate the drive thru there. So now I have a dilemma. I can either get out of my car and go in, or I can risk using the drive thru. Of course I choose the latter. How can I not? It’s right there.

The last two times I drove thru, I noticed the sign in big letters. CONDIMENTS UPON REQUEST. Okay, I just have to remember to tell them at the window that I want tartar sauce and ketchup. The last two occasions though, this is not necessary.

As I finish ordering, the drive thru operator asks, “Would you like some tartar sauce, shrimp sauce or ketchup?” I reply yes, to all three. Since this question is asked to me on both occasions, I figure I don’t need to bother telling them at the window that I would like condiments. So I don’t.

When my order arrives, I drive home. Unbeknownst to me, when I check my order, there is no tartar sauce, no shrimp sauce and no ketchup. This happened both times.

The second time I’m upset. The first time, yeah that was an honest mistake. But this time, no. I eat my meal with no sauce. It was very dry.

After the meal, I write a letter to the corporate office displaying my displeasure with this certain franchise. I tell them the basics, I’m never eating there again, they’re unprofessional, I’m going to go out and sleep with the manager’s wife, you know the basics.

After about two weeks, I receive a letter in the mail from the corporate headquarters. Enclosed in the envelope is a standard form letter with a stamped signature. It reads, “Dear Friend, we are sorry for your bad experience at one of our establishments. Here at LJS, we strive to be the very best. We would like to thank you for bringing this matter to our attention, so we may be able to improve ourself so this won’t happen in the future. As a token of our appreciation for being a dedicated customer, we have enclosed gift certificates that may be used at any of our many LJS locations.

Sincerely, (and then a stamped signature of a person who may or may not exist).” This letter seemed to calm my feelings about Long John Silver’s. I grab the envelope to collect my free meals, and wouldn’t you believe it, they forgot to include the certificates.

I’m thinking about writing another letter, but I don’t know where to send it.

Another time I find myself out is when something breaks electronically. Electronic manufactures seem to know the exact moment when their equipment breaks. The moment adopted in the industry is the day after your warranty expires.

Just the other day the knob fell off my home stereo unit. It lived a great life. But one day, the knob just fell off.

I looked in the yellow pages for the one place that might have the piece I was looking for, and Radio Shack came into view. “Radio Shack,” I told myself. They have every little accessory known to man.

I bring my little knob to Radio Shack and the clerk is eager to help me. I hold up my knob and say, “I need one of these.”

“We don’t have one of those, but we have one of these,” he replies.

What I’ve noticed is Radio Shack has a bunch of stuff nobody needs. Some of it is even unidentifiable.

“I don’t need one of those, I need one of these,” I return.

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“This,” I say.

“I’ll have to call another store.” This is their defense for everything. “I’ll have to call another store.” So I wait, listening in on his conversation.

“Hi, it’s Steve from store 12, do you have one of these things?” Silence. “Oh you don’t? Thanks for checking. I’ll just sell him something we have in the store.”

This information disappoints me because I always end up buying an adapter for equipment I didn’t even know existed. In my apartment you’ll find so many adapters and gadgets, I might as well put a sign up outside that reads, ‘Radio Shack.’ This, I believe, is how so many Radio Shack stores appear in neighborhoods across the country.

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One shopper explains, “Man, I mean, I could really use some new underwear, but I just don’t know. It’s going to be crazy out there! Don’t get me wrong, I like chicks and all, but any idiot knows that trying to horn in on their shopping crave is just a recipe for trouble…” The man continued by requesting to borrow a pair of this reporter’s boxers, but was promptly refused.

“I know what you mean, man!” replied an innocent bystander. “I was thinking about picking up a new drill this weekend, but even Home Depot’s parking lot is packed – where are all these skirts coming from?! I really wanted that drill, too, but it’s just not worth it, man…”

It is estimated that approximately ten trillion women will be hitting the streets this weekend to ‘whoop it up’ and spend gobs of their husbands’ money, so the recommendation being sent to the men of our society would be to gather the boys, tell them each to bring a case of beer, and promptly get to work – you really don’t want to be conscious when she finally returns home and those credit card receipts come out…

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My mother took this personally.  She would hit the store three times a week.  She would come home with 112 rolls of toilet paper, 75 tubes of toothpaste, 87 rolls of paper towels, and 44 bags of potato chips, each time.  All in which she paid only $26.99 for.

I think she missed the point of Hillary Clinton’s book, ‘It Takes a Village to Raise a Child.’ Because we’ve never had 500 people stay with us, or however many people constitute as a village.  But my mother was prepared.  This is her belief of why the towels always seemed to disappear.  Like the villagers thought that our house was some sort of Holiday Inn, and they were stealing them as they checked out.  I now blame Jose for my missing Debbie Gibson poster.

My mother still has toilet paper she bought during the Carter administration.  That’s how much she purchased.  That’s something new we should see, commemorative toilet paper.  Have the faces of world leaders and politicians on the rolls.  The majority, whether democratic or republican, are full of crap anyway.

Another outlet my mother was attuned to was second hand stores, especially toy stores.  My father wanted the entire family to go on vacation to Atlantic City, to visit the Trump Casino and Hotel.  That’s what he said.  Come to find out that New Jersey is the home of strip and outlet malls.  I have a son, a nephew, and niece, and apparently he wanted to buy toys for the kids, which is okay.

But some of the toys, being at a second hand store just weren’t believable enough for me.  They were always marked down a huge discount, because of some sort of defect.  Like this cool railroad kit.  This was called the Underground Railroad kit.  Evidently, you couldn’t see anything, but if you listened closely to the floor, you could hear some mumbling and footsteps.

He also bought this slinky for my son.  I later found out that it wasn’t an official slinky, but a spring removed from an old mattress.

I knew it was bad when I found a baseball card of Jackie Robinson.  Instead of number 42 himself, it was a picture of a white woman named Jackie Robinson, who broke the color barrier by finally throwing away her old black and white unit for a 27-inch color.  It was a piece of cardboard paper with a photograph of her at a Zeglin’s, and the purchase price and extended warranty information on the back, that constituted as stats.  What a rip-off.  I ended up selling the card to an Iranian kid who loved baseball, but due to his home condition, couldn’t get access of a television to discover who the real Jackie Robinson was.  He was amazed to see that this white woman caused so much controversy.  If I’m not mistaken, I think this kid is serving some time in a mental ward. I take no blame for this.

What eventually forced me to abandon the idea of second hand stores was when I spotted a Magic 8 Ball.  This did it.  I picked it up and on the box it clearly read, ‘The Magic 8 Ball,’ slightly imperfect.  I asked it a question and shook it up.  I asked, “Am I going to win the lottery?”  The 8 ball replied, ‘I’m not sure, what do you think?’  Talk about defective.

Another thing I noticed in department stores is the vast selection of Barbie dolls.  There are a million of these things.  Second hand stores feed off the popularity of Barbie and Ken dolls.  Unfortunately, the only ones carried in these places are the deficient ones.  So some of the names aren’t familiar to the average person.  Like the ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Barbie, Barbie.’  If you look at this doll hard enough, some key features are altered.  I’ve never seen a Barbie doll with one eyebrow that stretches across her face.

But I guess this is what people go through when they reach the scary, yet fulfilling world of adulthood, where you must save money.

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Please help me.  I’m a mid-level European royal who secretly left my home country to marry a wealthy American businessman.  That was two months ago.  Since then, we’ve been living in Twichum Holler, Tennessee.  Life isn’t exactly as I’d envisioned it.  I’m pondering whether or not to remain in this marriage.

When I lived in London, my life was an endless whirl of shopping, A-list parties, shopping, a few hours of charity work, shopping, sacking the servants, shopping for mink coats, attending the spa, shopping for jewelry, attending the opera, shopping, bikini waxing, shopping, snubbing the commoners, shopping, and finally, shopping.  I thought since America is so much bigger than England, it would have truly amazing possibilities for shopping, even though Daddy has rescinded my expense account leaving me with only my five-figure per month trust fund income.

Here in Twichum Holler, however, my shopping possibilities include simply Jimmy-Jed’s Pop-N-Shop (sort of a 7-11), Ruthie’s Mode-A-Day Boutique (featuring fashions au courant as of the 1950s), and the flea market every Saturday.  If I drive myself into Knoxville, there’s the Citadel Mall. It’s all right, but Sears definitely is no Harrod’s.

Also, when I lived in London, I had a number of servants to attend me, as well as a chauffeur.  My husband, Ray Earl, seems to expect me to be his servant.  I’ve noticed he gets upset if I don’t prepare a meal periodically, and I’ve yet to master how to employ the edge of the counter top to pop the cap off a beer bottle, although I can proudly say I have learned how to set the points in our 1972 Ford pickup by using a matchbook cover.

I’m slightly suspicious of Ray Earl’s claims of wealth.  It’s true he lies around all day doing nothing, but he does so in such a bourgeois way.  Our cabin is less than grandiose, and he knows nothing at all about how to play polo or golf – nor does he show the slightest interest in it.   I’m pleased he at least enjoys hunting, although possum isn’t as tasty as grouse.

Mainly, I guess I’m just homesick.  Well, that plus the fact Daddy now is threatening to disinherit me.  He says he’s waited long enough for me to come to my senses.  Ray Earl is nice and everything, but I’m not sure he’s worth losing my impeccable manicure over.  Or my title, for that matter.  What do you think?

Sincere regards,

Lady Margaret

of Wentworth-on-Eames

Savannah Says:

My dear Lady, I know just what you mean.  When I had my title selfishly ripped from my bosom by the heartless royal family of Luxembourg [note from Elizabeth: actually, it was Liechtenstein], I thought I’d never recover from the crushing blow, even though I’d only been Princess Savannah for eight days.  How I missed the feel of ermine tickling my swan-like, alabaster neck and the weight of the jewel-encrusted tiara mashing down my expensive hairdo.  But, alas!, it was not to be.  At least I have that pair of priceless 15th century drinking steins, which I smuggled out of the castle by stuffing inside my bra, to console me.

Here in America, we have no royalty, you know – well, not counting the Kennedy family and, of course, Oprah.  Just because your husband has “Earl” in his name does not mean he’s titled.  I’m afraid you may have misunderstood this when he proposed to you.

This might be a good thing, however, because it presents an “out” for you.  I certainly would not surrender my title for the King of Twichum Holler, and neither should you.  Simply call Daddy and tell him you married under false pretences.  He’ll be so happy to have you home, he’ll not only spring for the airfare, he’ll probably treat you to an Italian holiday.  I’m sure Ray Earl will be hard to forget, but a few minutes with a young Neapolitan cabana boy should do the trick.

Good luck, dear!

© 2000-2002 Elizabeth Hanes

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