I went to the mall yesterday.
It wasn't crowded, which was good. The less contact with other consumers the better, these days. Shopping for me has devolved into a reconnaisance mission of sorts: get in, get the requisite goods with as little contact with people as possible, and hopefully no bloodshed, and get out.
It's what I like to call "the inquisition" that makes it so exhausting. Shopping is no longer just an exchange of goods for money. It's an information-sharing duel, a minuet of minutiae, conducted between hapless, marketing-saturated American shoppers, and the underpaid, over-stressed retail corps, who probably have higher rates of alcoholism and suicide than farmers in the remotest corners of Siberia.
Say I enter a store...oh, I'll pick New York & Company, one of the worst offenders, and unfortunately one of my primo places for sale items. This is capitalism at its finest, baby - the most for the least, and survival of the coupon-clipping fittest. I have very good chances in this store of hitting the "less than 20, ideally less than 15, buck rule" that rules my attempts to clothe myself suitably for work and my vast array of social activities (which may or may not include me and the television. May or may not. Just sayin'.)
As soon as I walked in the store yesterday, the very nice girl by the front door said, "Do you know how you can get 15 percent off today?"
"No," I said, like an idiot, prompted to talk to her nicely by the fact that she wasn't the usual Stepford clerk they typically post on the front lines to indoctrinate the fresh meat. She was undoubtedly new.
"You can open a NY&Company charge account," she said.
"Okay," I said, moving quickly along, thinking, "Umm, no, I can't. I'd rather wear a plastic garbage bag and paper shoes than open up an account of death with you - with its attendant 800 percent interest rate and neverending parade of sale propaganda and perfume samples in my mailbox."
But I didn't say that. I plowed ahead, scanning the store for the sales racks, which they've cleverly interspersed throughout the pricey stuff. This is totally confusing, and lends itself to much, "Sorry, that's not part of the three for two deal. It's got that little ribbon on the sleeve, so it's just a little bit different. That'll be $903 instead of $15," drama.
Picking out several items without incident, I got in line, where the interrogating began again.
"Ma'am, would you like to save 15 percent today?"
The temptation is so strong to say, "Well, sure I would. Who wouldn't. However, I don't want to have to do anything to save it. Perhaps you could just lop off that 15 percent for me because I'm cute and haven't given you any trouble, even finding the dressing room with the door that was left slightly ajar, so your human resources weren't even strapped by producing a key for me. Surely that's worth 15 percent..."
"Ma'am? WOULD YOU LIKE TO SAVE 15 PERCENT TODAY BY OPENING UP A CHARGE ACCOUNT WITH US?"
"Uh, no thanks."
"Are you sure? You'll receive special notices of sales in the future, and again, 15 percent off your purchase today."
It must be fun to watch me snap.
"Yes, I will. And that 15 percent will be quickly gobbled up by the yearly fee for the card, plus interest, plus the late fees I may or may not have to cough up on the OFF CHANCE that I forget to pay my shiny new charge bill...having lost it in the mass of sales circulars that my local post office is determined to inflict on all apartment dwellers. Don't we already HAVE ENOUGH problems as renters? What with our teeny mailboxes that are twice as tall as they are wide, and when was the last time you got a shitload of VERY TALL MAIL? IASKYOU????"
"Ma'am?"
"Sorry. No. I don't want a charge account."
Seemingly accepting of this poor, poor decision on my part, she rang up my stuff - two $11.99 shirts, and a tank top thing, which was most assuredly on the sale rack. I was looking at maybe 35 bucks.
"That'll be $46.97"
"Why?"
"Because that's how much it came to."
"I'm not doubting your addition, but how much was the tank top?"
"20 dollars."
"Oh, no. That was on the half-off rack."
"Yes, but this one is white. The colored ones are on sale."
This was completely over my head, and I didn't want to talk about it anymore, but I wasn't interested in paying that much for something I knew I could get elsewhere for much less. So of course I had to ask her to take it off the transaction, which pained her greatly, I know. At this point I was someone to be tolerated, in spite of my best efforts to make the transaction pleasant.
She looked at me mournfully as she took my paltry, non-15-percent-off check card, and dealt the death blow.
"May I have your home phone number?"
And I gave it to her. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I'll build up enough resolve while standing in line to say, "Sorry, I don't give out my number," receiving another deadly stare. Sometimes they'll even roll out the big guns on this one, telling me I won't then receive their coupons in mail, if I withold the one last bit of pride I have left in the form of my home phone number.
It's easier to refuse to give this information out when we haven't had the credit card conversation, or when the clerk is particulary bitchy and I don't feel so bad about lowering their percentage of phone numbers collected. I've had to do this for Borders, where we had to ask for e-mail addresses, so I know it's totally not the clerk's idea to harvest my personal information, and I also know that they're rated based on how many nuggets of same they manage to wangle from their customers.
It's a horrible, horrible practice. In the information-collecting hierarchy, the zip code people have it easy. I mean, it's a relief to go into a store and have them ask for my zip code. "You mean you only want my zip code? You don't want my social security number? Or my license plate number? Or my last questionable test results? My God, my zip code only targets me within like a twenty mile radius, so the Pier One/JJill/Hechts goons might not be able to come and wack me quite as easily as the made men from NY&Company and Victoria's Secret! Praise the Lord!"
I'm not quite willing to strike them from my list, as I'll tolerate a lot for a bargain. However, it's getting to the point where I may have to start making my own clothes, which would be an incomprehensible tragedy, I assure you, as indicated by that skirt-making incident in Girl Scouts. I guess if I were less hyper about any lie involving personal information, I could make up a phone number. Or maybe I could look up the store's number, give it to them, and see if they notice.
Okay, so I normally don't get this interested in movies. I love movies, but I don't wait around for them to open, don't go to midnight showings as a general rule...and truthfully haven't seen a movie in the theatres in months. It's very sad, I know. But "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" is one of my favorite films of all time. I'm very interested to see what Tim Burton has cooked up for this one, and I love Johnny Depp, of course. I saw this poster walking through the mall last week and actually got all little-girly excited about it. It was kind of fun. And take THAT where you can get it, I say. 
AWESOM-O...
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