Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts

Thursday, February 21, 2013

it is literally cereal for serial killers...

Start a blog, write about stuff you want, and it comes in the mail!

Last month I mentioned Narciso Rodriguez perfume, and guess who sent me more perfume!!! (A: a perfume publicist reresenting Narcisco perfume.) Smell flowers and femininity right now? Yeah, that's me drenched in free perfume miles away from you.

And months ago, I discovered an online federal prison commisary shopping list. One of the many thrilling items available for sale in the clink is a ceral with the charming name, "Honey Nut Scooters." GUESS WHAT ARRIVED AT WORK (and is getting shoved into my face by the handful)?!?!

Reader Tony somehow managed to find "Honey Nut Scooters" and had them sent to me. Thank you Tony! And now, my serious analysis of prison cereal:

Presented not in the traditional box but in a resealable bag, it would apear Honey Nut Scooters is basically cheap Honey Nut Cheerios. It even says so on the package. Sadly, there is no mention of prison or criminals. I think this was simply the poor man's cereal selected as the cereal available in the prison commisary. I have no idea if it's available in non-criminal stores, but you can get it online.

I do not have milk at work, so I have no idea if when milk is added to Honey Nut Scooters, a shiv miraculously appears at the bottom of the bowl. There is no mention of a "prize" in the bag, although stick-on tattoos, nail files, and stamps seem like great possibilities.

In conclusion, Honey Nut Scooters is the low-income/prison version of Honey Nut Cheerios, and I think I've eaten a few too many handfuls of HNS and should go lay down on my cot to play my harmonica and strum a metal cup along the bars.

Thanks again to Tony! And if anyone else wants to send me free stuff, I am currently interested in making out with celebrities, BMWs, and learning to play the cello...

Sunday, February 17, 2013

just don't drop it in the sink...

Spending time with Blair and her fiance, Keri has opened me up to some much random new information. For example, last night we were discussing what we'd like to happen to our remains after we die. Keri said, "I would like to be a jewel."

While researching how to have her beloved cat cremated, Keri discovered that there are companies that turn animal/human ashes and hair into "diamonds" which can then be worn as jewelry.

"What a lovely necklace."

"Thank you. Remember Stan? Well..."
Please spend the rest of your day exploring Life Gem. I'm serious. Go look at it, select the color of your stone, and jewelry setting. Turning Stan into a diamond will run you about $2,000, and another $1-2K to put him in a lovely ring or necklace.

For the record, I would like to be a "Colorless Life Gem" and you can wear me in the 14k Gold Cathedral Style with accent diamonds. You don't necessarily "need" Stan to be dead to wear him as bling. Life Gem will turn hair (about as much as comes off during a haircut) into a gem. Or, if your beloved is deceased which seems to be the bulk of their business, Life Gem will need 1 cup (as in a cup of flour) of Stan, mailed in a sealed plastic bag and shipped "as you would ship any valuable item."

Please go explore the website, click on everything because it all FASCINATING, and then leave your favorite quotes in the comments. The testimonial section is pretty great. Here are ones I noted:

"...thanks to you and LifeGem, I’m able to feel something besides the sorrow, loneliness, and fear that have been with me since he died."

 "I had earrings made out of two of the princess cut diamonds and have been offered money for come back is you cant afford them..they are worth more then you could ever pay me."

 And then, in the section called, "Clarity": "As one of our clients said about her husband, 'He was perfect, yet certainly not flawless. I wouldn’t expect his LifeGem to be without flaws either.'"

If your first husband died, you can LITERALLY wear him on the wedding ring to your second. This is assuming they don't mix up the ashes with someone else's. How would you know? You wouldn't. You could be wearing someone's cat. It's just the risk one takes when turning their loved one into an accessory...

Friday, July 29, 2011

cacao to walmart...

This glorious Oregon news report was on DListed this morning.

1. What happened to Sandy's leg? Was that a result of her expulsion from Walmart?
2. Carla! Carla! Carla!
3. I thought that's how you were supposed to dress in Walmart. Now, had they approached Sandy and said, "You cannot pair a turquoise bikini top with orange sweat-shorts and a leg brace" I'd have better understood.
4. Related to item #1, what happened to Sandy's hair?
5. I thought Oregon was supposed to be all Portlandia and recycling and Subaru Foresters. What is up with Sandy limping down her driveway ashing a cigarette while complaining about uptight dress codes?
6. I wonder if, like in the film Easter Promises, Sandy's tattoos tell the story of her dark and complex past. Or she just picked them out of a book when she was high on whip-its. It's 50-50.
7. I wish I was as comfortable in my body as Sandy is in hers...

Tuesday, June 07, 2011

safeway slice of life...

3 blocks from my office is the downtown Safeway. Did you know there was a Safeway in the Financial District? There is. And it's a bullshit Safeway. On the ground floor of an apartment building on Jackson Square, Bullshit Safeway is half the size of a regular Safeway, and half as lit. It's like a haunted house in there. None the less, that place is packed with suits every day between 11am and 2pm. And the sandwich line is always ridiculous.
My boss just came back from the sandwich line and announced, "You're right, Beth. That sandwich line is, indeed, bananas."
"Told you." I responded. "And everyone takes forever with all of their uptight sandwich needs."
"I know!" said my co-worker Carlos. "There's like 40 people in line and one sandwich maker. I was in there this one time and the woman behind me asked the sandwich maker to put on new plastic gloves because she didn't want 'meat gloves.' And the sandwich maker couldn't understand her. She had to say it like, three times. And everyone in line was like, 'Oh my God! She wants you to change your gloves!' Thank God I was in front of her."
This is very specific, but that is SO FiDi Bullshit Safeway. Everything about that is FBS. Because if you're so uptight about meat gloves, you can go to 673 other food places in the West Coast's finance capital. When you choose Bullshit Safeway, you're choosing gross gloves. And you're choosing a bananas line.
Why so surprised?
PS: Please send me all of your Safeway stories because I just-this-second developed a book idea called, "Shit That Went Down At My Safeway..."

Monday, May 23, 2011

oh, this old thing?

No matter what people claim, everybody loves to shop. It's just a matter of finding something worth buying. This is how my co-worker Bill feels about the US Marshall's Unabomber Auction.
What? You haven't heard about the Unabomber Auction? Allow me to fill you in:

"Sale of Theodore John Kaczynski aka “The Unabomber” items – Per a Court Order in the criminal case United States V. Theodore J. Kaczynski (96-cr-259-GEB, E D. Cal.; 06-10514, 9th Circuit), the government has been ordered to conduct a “well-publicized” internet sale of Kaczynski’s seized property to be sold to the general public in the effort to pay off a $15 million restitution order to the victims and their families. Unlike other sales, neither the U.S. Marshals Service nor GSA will receive any revenue from this sale."

First of all, I love that I live in a time where the government is selling a killer's crap on the internet for everyone to gawk at.
Second of all, INTERESTING! Right?
You have until June 2nd to shop, folks. A hoodie and sunglasses, presumably the ones he wore for his famous wanted poster police sketch are currently at $20,025. And the handwritten copy of the Unabomber manifesto is currently going for $17,525. So we're looking at more reasonable items. Bill's first choice is "Hatchet and Small Hand Held Knives."
When we first looked, these items were holding steady at $50. They're currently up to over $600. My first choice is the "Miscellaneous Clothing" lot, selling for $350. Check this shit out:

What is on the bottom of these shoes? Lifts? Seriously. What is that?

And then the US Marshall version of Andre Leon Talley includes this description:


If you need to waste another hour on the internet today, please check out the Unabomber Trunk Sale and let me know which items you find most fascinating. Also, I'd like to hear who else's crap you'd buy. I am interesting in anything belonging to Albert Fish, David Carpenter and the Zodiac hood...

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

"this is all very boys don't cry..."

For reasons that make perfect sense, I needed to go to the Walmart in Milpitas. Naturally San Francisco's Toast of the Town, Brock Keeling came with me. Our exciting adventure into the suburban wilds is up now on SFGate...

Monday, January 17, 2011

don't worry. melissa built it...

The past two weeks, ever since I got back from my trip, have kind of felt like I couldn't catch a break. Shit's just going wrong. Little shit, unimportant shit. But shit is turning to shit none the less. I'm telling myself this is no indication of the entirety of 2011. But I'm giving January the side eyes.
Anyway, I woke up Saturday morning determined to be a productive, positive grown-up. I'd been carrying around a gift card from Ikea for two years (oh yeah. two years) and decided, "Fuck it. I'm going to Ikea to buy a new bed."
This seemed like a reasonable idea. It's Ikea. How complicated can it be? And there's no shame in a woman buying furniture alone. I can do this by myself without crying.
No. No I can't.
I got myself to Ikea, impressive in and of itself as the freeways of the East Bay were designed by M.C. Escher. And sure there were crowds of families all rolling around on the display couches like they were ever going to buy a boxy, ultra-modern, blood-velvet sectional.
I looked at every piece of merchandise. I might be down in the dumps but I'm still human. I considered all kinds of things. A white fur rug, perhaps? I definitely need a new coffee table? Oh! "Art"! But I'd come for a bed and a bed I picked out. This one.
With big furniture, you've got to go downstairs and select the right cardboard box from the terrifying warehouse. I nervously grabbed a big, flat, furniture roller cart thing (loosely translated from Swedish) and made my way to Aisle 26, Bin 2.
There it was, my bed. In a big cardboard box, weighing 43 lbs.
I tried to lift it, determining that if I double parked back home, I could awkwardly but surely lift this thing from my car into the house. I moved the bed onto the cart, and at that point, I was committed to the ordeal.
With my bed pulled from it's bin, I got the two huge, heavy metal additions the instructions required, and piled it all onto my cart. It was looking very big and feeling very heavy. My purchases were also incredibly hard to maneuver, and it occurred to no one at Ikea on Saturday to get the hell out of anyone's way.
So there I was, pushing this overloaded cart with a metal bed on it through the Ikea warehouse, my sunglasses slipping off the top of my head, my big handbag clunking off my shoulder onto my elbow, trying to avoid clipping others' ankles with these huge metal bars jutting out 5 inches from the ground.
And every time someone got in my way, I'd get all exasperated and passive aggressively pretend to whisper, "Jesus Christ, lady. Come ON."
I paid for everything (I got a lamp too. Obviously.) and then pushed my purchases toward the holding area, an event unto itself as they've got to make a copy of your receipt and give you a number (143) and tell you where to bring your car.
I walked back to the massive parking lot, got in a fight with a man blocking my car, finally made it out of there, got stuck in the maze of one way roundabouts leading to the loading area and found the one parking space available.
Then I stood outside next to my car, as if the Ikea concierge would come running over with my purchases. Amazingly, it doesn't work that way. I had to go back inside, back to the holding area, present my number (143) and get my fucking cart back. Then, with lots of "Jesus Christ, lady!"s, I got my shit to my car and looked at the backseat of my Honda Civic.
This'll fit. This'll totally fit.
Getting the cart not to roll away was task number one. Using my goddamn purse as brakes, I managed to stabilize it enough to LIFT WITH MY KNEES and pick up the biggest cardboard box and start shoving it in my backseat. There it goes! Almost there! It was lining up perfectly before I realized that the bed was about 6" too big. (That's what she said.)
There was no way. It was suddenly abundantly clear. What the fuck was I thinking? This big bed won't fit in my fucking Civic. Shit, what am I going to do? I was in Emeryville, alone, with a huge bed.
But I couldn't stand there staring at a bed hanging out of the back of my car all day, so I started to try and pull that bitch out. Which is when I realized. It was stuck.
Officially stuck. It wasn't budging. Somehow, I'd shifted that bed in there in a way that prohibited it from ever emerging. My sunglasses crashed to the ground, my manicure started to disintegrate clutching onto that cardboard, and people smoothly loading furniture into their Touregs started to stare.
I panicked, like a trapped animal.
A man in an Ikea shirt walked by.
"Excuse me!" I yelled. "Excuse me!" My voice cracking.
He stopped and looked at me.
"I bought this bed and it doesn't fit in my car and I tried anyway and now it's stuck and I need you to help me get it out."
He just started at me while I repeated the information. I went through this 4 or 5 times, somehow working past the language barrier to make it clear that the box that was stuck in my backseat needed to come out.
He looked at me like I was nuts, then wrapped his arms around the cardboard box and yanked. It wasn't easy, but he pulled the bed out, left it tilted against my car and then smiled and said, "Goodbye."
So I piled everything back up onto that fucking cart, locked my doors, grabbed my bag, no longer even bothered to whisper, "You need to move, Stupid" and pushed my belongings to "Home Delivery."
After 30 minutes and $80, I left my bed at Ikea and headed empty-handed back to my car. I took a deep breath, put the key in the ignition and promptly got lost...

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

is that a pistol in your pocket...

I love a bargain. And I love all of the fabulous daily coupon shit I've signed up for. Groupon, Home Run, even Open Table, my nightly dinner date has half-off deals that you simply buy in advance and cash in whenever you feel like it.
TK of 40goingon28 occasionally offers his thoughts on various Groupons, like this one. Which makes me feel better that other people spend time pondering their daily Groupons. Because no matter what it is, it's on sale and I must thus consider it.
Like today's Home Run deal.
Normally, a whopping $99, today for a mere $48 you can get...An Intro to Pistols Class at Bay Area Firearms!
"Ever wanted to twirl a handgun with the finesse of an action hero (Yes), hit a target with the effortless ease of Jesse James (Duh), or just relax with the simple, solid confidence of a person who knows serious self-defense (Who doesn't?)? This introductory pistol class gives you basic gun skills in a safe, welcoming atmosphere."
Am I alone in finding this slightly inappropriate coming on the heels of the Tragedy in Tucson? The included image especially makes me think, "Home Run, this might be a little too soon."

That being said, I'm all for "women-only classes" taught by a "regular Annie Oakley." And I am paranoid about crime. Plus, I'm an American. So gun lust runs through my veins.
I might just pull out the ole credit card and shoot off my order...

Monday, October 25, 2010

tourist trapped at the mall...

Today's Tourist Trapped is up on SFGate! In it, I spend a rainy Sunday wandering around Union Sqaure and the Westfield Shopping Center basically pretending I'm in a Woody Allen movie...

Friday, September 03, 2010

i hate being an activist...

If you've ever been to my little flat in the Mission, you'll know I like bulletin boards covered in crap. In fact, if you've ever been to my little flat in the Mission, you're probably part of the crap. I have everything on those boards from my Nonie's high school candids to a signed cocktail napkin wager from 1999. And amidst these personal mementos and postcards and buttons are magazine clippings of fabulous living spaces I plan to one day inhabit.
I've got this great full page of a massive Moroccan loft in Manhattan and a torn half-sheet on a Nantucket kitchen. The most faded of these clippings is an ancient article on decoupage artist John Derian. I've followed him ever since, drooling over his divine plates and serving trays at fancy shops like Gump's and Nest. It's all gorgeous complex artful pieces you'd expect to find once the young heirs have taken over their family's hunting lodges in rural England.
But other than purchasing a small "calling card dish," I've never been able to really justify dropping $200 on a single John Derian plate to hang on my wall. I'm just not there yet.
And now finally, after I've waited so patiently for either immense wealth or a heavenly discount retail moment, John Derian debuts at Target this Sunday.
Those plates are now plastic. And $2.99.
Target, you've probably conveniently forgotten, we are boycotting because they gave money to anti-gay marriage politicians. Which is aggravating on two levels: 1) What kind of idiot doesn't support gay marriage? And 2) It feels like Target is my husband who cheated on me with a cheap hooker and I love my husband but this mistake is really ruining our fucking relationship.
I'm sure John Derian and his people made this deal with Target long before Target went and screwed that cheap hooker, but something makes me wonder whether the artiste might issue a statement. I mean, come on.
Making this even more painful are my Labor Day party plans coming together nicely. Leslie's going to do some lovely hors d'eouvres and Alex is slow-cooking ribs and wouldn't some lovely little plates add to the ambiance I've created with my fresh flowers and my twinkling votives and my jam-packed bulletin boards covered with, well, now one less piece of crap...

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

he struck me as a hot tub time machine kind of guy...

I generally have Mondays off from work, and spent yesterday trying to enjoy Target which has been overrun with fancy designers who've never been in a Target before. The Liberty of London stuff was all gross and flammable, other than the lingerie which was adorable and the Jean Paul Gautier? My God, there is no such thing as a Serramonte shopper who would ever wear this.
While I was out there, I swung by my favorite anonymous cineplex and watched Date Night, curled up by myself pretending I don't want to bear Steve Carell's children. As a teenager, I regarded going to the movies by oneself as social suicide. Even if only strangers saw you, those strangers would think you have no friends. But now, on a Monday afternoon, with a bucket of Diet Coke and a virtually empty theater? I'm in absolute heaven.
So there I sat, ignoring any responsibilities and wasting a perfectly good day hiding at the movies, when the solo man sitting directly behind me props his BARE FOOT onto the arm rest one seat away.
I have certainly rested my feet on the chair in front of me. I may have even kicked off a shoe or two in my day, although I was probably drunk at the time. And while my feet are tended to by the lovely ladies of Holly Nails, I don't subject them to strangers in public places.
But this guy tosses his cave man foot around like it's never occurred to him that both he and the arm rest could be incredibly gross. I mentally measured the distance between his foot and my face and by my calculations, we were 14-17 inches away from each other. My shoulders tensed, I moved my Big Gulp to the other side of me and turned myself all the way around in my chair, giving him a solid and silent, "What the fuck?"
Man foot stared straight ahead at the screen and chuckled out loud. Stumped as to what to do, I considered confrontation. I envisioned each of the possible reactions to "Excuse me. Your bare foot in my face is disgusting."
Each option seemed like it would prohibit the continued enjoyment of my 90 minute cinematic vacation.
Eventually the foot and the man it was attached to departed. He was only there for 20 minutes or so, perhaps killing time for what he really intended to see. Century 20 Daly City is marvelous for sneaking in and out of movies all day. I just hope he kept his foot to himself.
We'll see if Man Foot makes an appearance when I'm back at the movies next week. I have no choice but to attend. After all, Zac Posen is coming to Target...

Friday, March 12, 2010

do you love it...

Thanks to several boring logistical issues which you won't care about, I found myself at Ross Dress for Less looking for a cheap swimsuit, which I had no choice but to purchase within a 30-minute window this evening.
If you need anything to wear at the last minute and only your best friends will see you in bizarre circumstances, ie; me in a unisex meditation pool tomorrow, Ross is the place.
Through the sleet and snow (mild mist), I raced into Ross and went straight to the old lady bathing suit/cover-up/huge plastic tote-bag section and pulled the four least offensive options from the rack. I then did a lap around the store, selecting a discontinued business suit and a polyester cocktail dress which, should it find itself within a foot of an open flame, will probably explode.
I then made my way to the fitting room with my six items and waited patiently by the "8 items at a time" sign as the attendant chatted with a security guard, protecting a bin of hangers.
She finally decided to acknowledge me and grunted, "How many you got?"
"Six." I said, holding them out for her to inspect.
"You got bathing suits?" She presented this as a question, touching the actual bathing suits as she did so.
I indicated that yes, I got bathing suits.
"You can't try these on commando."
Oh my God.
I felt the security guard suddenly listening in.
"Um, I know." Silence. Stares. "I'll leave my underwear on."
"What?" She screamed this. She literally screamed this.
The security guard chuckled.
Ms. Attendant felt the need to explain to me WHY I had to leave my underwear on, which is a universal unspoken rule everyone knows, so much so it often appears in swimsuit tags. I know the whole underwear/swimsuit thing. What about me implies I'll strip down to nothing and get intimate with a $15.99 floral print, skirted, old-lady bathing suit? Her lesson seemed to go on for hours. And the whole time, I just kept saying, "I know. I know."
Finally, I was allowed inside the dressing room and once I'd selected my little nook, I became even more paranoid. Ross' dressing room doors don't lock. They're magnetic. And I became convinced this woman was going to come check on me, making sure that I wasn't raping my Blanche Devereaux swimwear by going "commando."
I picked the bathing suit that seemed the least offensive and raced out of there, handing the rejected clothing back to the attendant, fully expecting her to make me stand there while she ran a blue light over everything.
She didn't and I paid for a 1940's style brown and white polka dot number that will inevitably get some side-eyes at the unisex meditation pool, thus prohibiting any effective meditation...

Sunday, July 12, 2009

it's probably from 1997 anyway...

I'm at a loss. A frustrating, unfixable loss. 
Yesterday, the Missus and I enjoyed lunching and shopping at the mall. As we poked around Banana Republic, we enjoyed a heated discussion on why one would buy white pants when I suddenly said, "This song is amazing." 
I'll readily admit to my apparently shitty taste in music. I have no problem confessing that yes, I like Rob Thomas. That douche John Mayer is right up my alley. And sure, I sobbed hysterically at James Blunt's heartbreaking performance on a 1am episode of Oprah. Who didn't? I'm VH1's target spinster, and I make no apologies
But this song playing in a lesser Banana Republic...well, it was cool. Cool even to other people! And I really, really liked it. I couldn't make out the words, it was too weird, gay and cocktail party background-esque. Normally, I'll google a sentence, find whatever song struck my fancy and buy it on iTunes. But I couldn't make out a word of this masterpiece. 
"Excuse me." I said to  woman with one of those secret service things in her ear, in case of a "Martin fit eco-chic trouser" emergency. "Do you know what song this is?"
She looked at me in bored horror. "No."
"Oh, okay. It's just this song is so..."
But she was off to fold some cropped cardigans and I was left worrying about the customer service policies of one of my standard clothiers. I'm not saying she had to run down to the CD player somewhere and burn me a copy. But a little, "I know! We've been wondering too" or "Let me ask my hella gay manager, Reymundo" would have made me feel less like an asshole. 
We didn't buy a thing at the Westfield Banana and if I may, I suggest you shop at the Union Square flagship Banana anyway. It's 12 times the size and selection. But that song stayed stuck in my head throughout J. Crew, Zara and the frozen yogurt joint. I continues to drive me nuts, in fact. There's a song out there, an awesome song to add to my repertoire and I'll never know what it is. 
And neither will you. Thanks to some skank at Banana...