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Tuesday, November 29, 2005


Little Shop of Horrors

About to dash off to a rehearsal for an incredibly funny show, but I wanted to take a couple minutes to comment on an experience I had this weekend. Seeing as how it's the holiday season, when shopping is required even of those who have little/no love of the activity, I set forth with my wife on Sunday afternoon to see if we could cross some people off of our list.

The problem with many female shoppers is that they lack the sort of laser beam intensity that most men have. It's more of a holistic experience with most women. And so I knew before leaving the house that I would be visiting a lot more stores than I wished to, because a clever display would light my wife's imagination and lure her inside in the hopes of unexpectedly finding the perfect gift.

This is how I ended up in Anthropologie.

Ye Gods, this is not a store for me. Or any man whose testicles are still in tact. Wall to wall with overly precious, gilded-beyond-repair gewgaws marked up to 500% of their actual value. They carry things which should be practical, like mugs, but which are rendered, through some shabbychicification process into something meant to be sat on a shelf and looked at instead of filled with coffee.

They've got a whole section of cutesy handles to replace the plain, workaday knobs that now adorn one's chest of drawers. Seriously, who the fuck cares that much about handles?

But it's a store filled to the brim with useless shit like that. I found myself going a little crazy wondering why in the name of sweet crispy-fried Christ anyone would want any of this stuff. I wasn't alone. Strewn about the store were other men who'd been dragged in there, sitting, shell-shocked on the various pillow-saturated chairs strategically located around the place. All of them were silently mouthing, "Why? Why do I have to be here?" And I knew how they felt.

Only 26 more shopping days until Christmas.

I am currently working in a mall and every time I enter the building I see the same thing, only these men are plastered on all of the various benches strew about the place. I actually feel sorry for them.
unfortunately, because I hate being the female stereotype, *I* the fuck care about handles. and shabichicification. I want to hate it, but I think it's a genetic predisposition that I can't overcome. like menstruating.

I just leave my husband at home.
my hubby knows come with or don't complain about my over-spending - s'all I'm saying
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