What makes a good shopping experience?

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Is it just me, or is Macy’s one of the harder department stores to shop in?

Yesterday I went to Macy’s for the first time in a couple of months. I was looking for a pair of casual pants (black, navy, khaki, size 6) to bridge the season-change from summer to fall, something similar to the black crops I’d bought there back in the spring.

Now I’d be the first to admit I have two basic shopping styles:

  • Occasionally, I like to browse. Walk into a store, look over what’s there, pick things up. Touch-and-roll, my sister calls it. I find it relaxing. I get ideas. I rarely spend money. It’s more of a sisterly/girlfriend kind of shopping.
  • More often, I power-shop. Decide beforehand what I want or need, then race from store to store until I find it. At the right price. In the right size and color. Sometimes I spend money; sometimes I don’t. It’s the kind of shopping men generally do.

Anyway, as I was meandering from department to department in Macy’s, I became more and more confused. And frustrated.

Nothing made sense in their “organization” of merchandise. It was like somebody had scooped everything up into a hot air balloon, then opened the bottom and dumped it all out, leaving stuff exactly where it landed.

I found a pair of black dress slacks, size 18, by Style&co. right next to a lime green, size petite, scooter skirt by Karen Scott, for instance.

Okay, that’s just a fluke, I told myself.

But it quickly became obvious the store didn’t arrange things by color, or size, or style, or designer — things most stores do to help out their customers.

Nope, it was like a yard sale. Or an Easter egg hunt.

Even the signage along the walls didn’t help.

Maybe I should just give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe things were haphazardly placed because they were trying to move the summer lines out in preparation for back-to-school and fall. Maybe a bunch of lazy customers had come in, tried stuff on, then failed to put it back in the right place. Maybe disorganization is the new style in merchandising. Maybe it’s Macy’s way of forcing customers to consult the salespeople rather than helping themselves.

Ya think??

Somehow, I’m not convinced. It all comes across as a mess to me. It doesn’t make me want to linger in their store. Or buy anything.

And Sales is really the bottom line, isn’t it?

Mercury is Retrograde again

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It took a comment from one of my online friends (Hippie Cahier) on another friend’s blog before I realized what was happening here.

Have you noticed a snarl in communications of late? Is your e-mail, like mine, suddenly depositing itself in the Bulk Mail folder rather than your customary Inbox? Are you finding people more quarrelsome, equipment more likely to malfunction, and your own ability to focus out-of-whack?

Me, too!

Blame Mercury going Retrograde.

Huh?

While I refuse to organize my day around the astrology column in the newspaper, I kind of enjoy reading it. Astrology, after all, is one of those ancient arts, and people since the beginning of time have turned to the stars for explanations of why things happen when and how they do.

Remember it was Astrologers from the East who were among the first visitors to the newborn Christ Child and His Family!

But as a  Catholic Christian, I realize astrology isn’t exactly “up there” with the kind of Biblical study we should be doing. Nor is it an “exact” science.

Deciding to learn more about this Mercury Retrograde thing, I did some online research.

Mercury, as we all know, is the planet closest to the Sun. It orbits the Sun once every 88 or so days and is said to rule the constellations of Gemini and Virgo (as well as the folks, like yours truly, who were born under one of those astrological signs).

“Retrograde” is a term astrologers use to describe a planet’s apparent backward motion through the zodiac. Planets don’t actually travel backwards; it’s only that they appear to be doing so.

Mercury rules communication, commerce, thinking, education, and transportation. People who must use their minds (writers, consultants, teachers, salespeople, orators) also come under Mercury’s rule.

So when Mercury goes Retrograde, we see a rise in misunderstandings between people, a disruption in negotiations, breakdowns of phones and computers, and other snags — all because some key component has gone missing (Mercury being the little trickster he is!). Astrologers are quick to advise us not to make important decisions or do anything requiring clear, logical thinking during this period (which runs from Aug. 3 through Sept. 9).

So, to all my writer friends, maybe it’s not Writer’s Block. Let’s just blame it on Mercury Retrograde!

Unpacking…Repacking

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My Favorite Domer (AKA College Guy) has decided to unpack — just a week before he re-packs for his return to South Bend.

What’s up with that?

When he came home nearly three months ago, he’d hoped to find a job, particularly in his major OR doing anything at a “name” business (things that would look good on his budding resume and give him some valuable experience).

It wasn’t to be.

Try as he might, there was nothing available.

So he toyed with the idea of going back and taking summer classes — not a particularly desirable option, as he’d spent last summer doing just that.

Eventually, he decided to stay home — “independent study,” he called it. He ordered a stack of books recommended by his professors and proceeded to read through them, soaking up a wealth of information that will help him along the way (without having to worry about time or grades!).

You’d have thought that somewhere along the line, he’d want to unpack. I thought he would. But no.

Whenever he needed something that was still in a suitcase or box or container, he dug in, fished it out, and left the rest of the stuff neatly packed.

I asked him about it, and he told me he didn’t want to inadvertently leave something important behind when he headed off for Fall Term.

Sounds logical.

It also hastened the time it took to go through his stuff and make a list of what he needed to replenish.

Still, the mom in me can’t help but wonder — despite how much he loves being on campus — if maybe, just maybe, a part of him will miss being at home.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

Even then, he won’t miss home as much as we’ll miss him!

Preserving our Memories

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Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.  ~From the television show The Wonder Years

Today I finished the Memory Book I was compiling for My Favorite Domer (aka my son or College Guy), and I must admit it looks great!

Now don’t bother reminding me I’m not supposed to be “laboring” on the Sabbath. I know that!

However, no way do I consider scrapbooking “labor.”

Nope, unless you call it a labor of love, which it surely was!

I have countless friends who are into the hobby of scrapbooking. They spend lots of time — and money — browsing craft stores for just the right binder, colorful inside pages, cutesy decorations, stickers, fancy scissors, bric-a-brac, etc. Then they spend equal amounts of time cutting things out, gluing them down, measuring and re-measuring until the finished product is a work of perfection.

They love scrapbooking and wouldn’t consider giving it up.

I never thought I’d join them — not until my son’s senior year in high school, when one of his teachers had all her classes do a Memory Book.

On a regular basis throughout the year the kids had to compose an essay on a certain topic (My Favorite Vacation, A Person I Wish I Could See Again, My Early School Years, Middle School, My Family Tree, My Special Gifts and Talents, My Future Plans, and so on). These essays were to be grouped (with photos, ticket stubs, and other treasures) into a Memory Book.

It had to look nice because it was for a grade.

Wise teacher, huh? She probably knew kids that age wouldn’t bother unless there was something in it for them!

Anyway, because much of the information to be included was stuff my son didn’t know, I had to help.

What started out as a labor became a labor of love and a really good bonding tool. We spent countless hours poring over photos, reminiscing over his early years, and enjoying each other’s company. I still get misty-eyed over some of his essays, particularly the one he wrote about his grandpa (my dad, who passed away in 2008).

When my son became a College Guy, I instructed him to save everything. Ticket stubs, pictures, programs, honors, awards, everything.

He’s a bit of a pack-rat, so that was no problem; however, he drew the line at writing more essays or cutting or gluing or organizing.

Those jobs (minus the essays!) fell to me.

He now has three Memory Books, one for each of the last three years. He says he’s glad I’m doing them, but I know he’ll be even more glad several years into the future. Time has a way of erasing things that photos, songs, and stories help us recall.

What are you doing to preserve the past so you can relive it in the future?

Choices…Choices

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It’s a sobering thought when you realize how close you came to possible death from someone’s carelessness. Let me explain.

This morning I was driving My Favorite Domer (AKA college guy) around town on a few errands — some for him, some for me. Now, at age 20, he’s perfectly capable of driving himself, but since we both had errands to run, it just seemed the sensible (and frugal!) thing to go together.

And it was my car.

I was traveling east along a mostly residential, tree-lined street when suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw a white bus lunge forward from a Stop sign on my left.

This was one of those “senior citizen” buses the county operates, something they use to pick up the elderly and disabled and take them to doctor’s appointments, the grocery store, Wal-Mart, and other places.

Since there was nothing immediately behind me, I stopped my car and SAT on the horn, waiting to get the other driver’s attention.

Eventually, she must have noticed because she, too, stopped — after crossing the westbound lane and nearly touching the center line of the road I was on.

You’d have thought she’d been all apologetic. After all, it was her mistake.

But no.

She started screaming at me, flailing her arms in an angry manner, and making all sorts of ugly faces.

At me.

Okay, you didn’t expect me to take it without a fight, did you?

I screamed a few choice words back at her — nothing my son hadn’t heard before! — then promptly got out of her way.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became.

So after I got home, I picked up the phone and called the agency responsible for those buses and drivers.

A dispatcher, hearing that I had a complaint, transferred me to the director, and I gave her a blow-by-blow account of what happened. I assured her I didn’t want to be responsible for someone losing her job in this lousy economy; neither did I want to see a bunch of old or disabled folks killed from the carelessness of one of their bus operators.

You did the right thing, the director told me. We can’t correct a problem if we don’t know about it. We’ll take it from here.

I hope so. I really hope so.

Tell me, what would you have done?

I’m Finally Fishing!

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“Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” — Chinese proverb

My Favorite Domer finally got tired of my inane questions yesterday and told me he was going to teach me how to fish.

This all started about a month ago, when I purchased a new MP3 to replace one that was barely limping along.

The new one didn’t come with a manual. Everything I needed to know — or so its advertisement claimed — was available inside the player itself.

Cool?

Not particularly.

I’m more of a visual learner. I rather like wading through instruction manuals, testing out the features for myself and learning which buttons control which functions.

Not my son.

Give him a gadget, any gadget, and he’ll immediately start punching buttons, trashing “folders and stuff you don’t need,” hooking up accessories for immediate use!

So during the past month, any time I’ve had a question about Mr. MP3, I’ve wailed for my son: “What does this button do?” “How can I make it….?” “Why won’t it shut off?” Etc.

Yesterday he was on his computer when I had to beg for more help.

“Okay, mom, I’m going to teach you how to fish,” he said.

He sat at my computer, moved music from one folder to another, copied it to Mr. MP3, and said, “There you go — all done!”

And he left.

Realizing that he’d done the same thing for a month — and I wasn’t one bit wiser — I pulled out some CDs, ripped them to my computer, copied them to Mr. MP3, and organized them into category folders.

All. By. Myself!

Feeling all techy and smart by then, I told him that if you’re going to teach a man to fish, you need to know what his learning style is. Some of us can’t simply watch while our mentor puts a worm on a hook, tosses a line into the water, and reels in the catch-of-the-day.

We’ve gotta do it ourselves!

An End-of-Vacation Surprise

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Guess what I found when we returned home from vacation??

Blooming Crepe Myrtle

Ta-Da! One of the three Crepe Myrtles we planted a year or so ago has decided to bloom!

I was stunned, to say the least. Sure, we’ve had ideal weather for it — hot and dry — but I never expected it to produce flowers this soon! And in my favorite color, too!

You can’t really tell from this photo, but there are buds literally all over this plant. It’s going to be spectacular soon and, if it holds true to others of its species, it will stay gorgeous right into Autumn!

Before I forget, here’s an update on the Crepe Myrtle I’ve been babying since the landscapers snapped off the solitary green shoot it was producing at the beginning of this season:

"Baby" Crepe Myrtle

Yep, no blooms (yet!), but its foliage looks healthy, don’t you think?

The third plant looks much the same as this “baby,” though I think it’s a bit taller.

We all complain about the heat, but I guess it’s been good something!

Beating the Heat

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Staying inside the air conditioning and away from the sizzling heat isn’t my idea of much of a vacation.

Nevertheless, because the temps were so high (mid-90s, at least) and the humidity matched, that’s just what we did during our recent trek to south Mississippi.

We in the Midwest region of this country are familiar with high temps and humidity. We suffer through them for a few days, then joyfully praise the Creator when a welcome cold front slams through, reducing the heat and stickiness.

But some sections of our land haven’t been as fortunate. People in Texas and Oklahoma have endured weeks of heat; in fact, the entire South has had day after day of scorching temps, punctuated by popup thunderstorms, which refuse to cool things down or dump the prayed-for rain.

Makes for drought conditions, leading to things like wildfires and a ban on fireworks. Bummer.

There’s something refreshing about our Midwest summers. Sure, daytime temps get up there in the 90s, but like as not, the evenings cool down. People can talk walks after supper and even open their windows at night!

South Mississippi wasn’t like that. Far from it. We’d go to bed at night, and the temperature would be in the 80s; waking up the next morning, it was still in the 80s (and if it’s that hot at 7 a.m., you know it’s going to be unbearable by noon!).

It’s the kind of heat that sucks the breath right out of you the moment you venture outside and drenches you with sweat by the time you go back in.

My poor Sheltie in his long, silky coat, truly suffered. He’d go outside to potty, then race back in, claiming a spot on the cold tile floor or next to the bathtub or in front of the air conditioning vents.

He’d give me the look that begged, “C’mon, Mom, find the blasted zipper in this fur-suit and get it off me!”

I noticed a lot of people on the beach near the Gulf waters, where at least a nice breeze makes the weather more tolerable. Swimming pools and shopping malls also are welcome diversions. But not for dogs.

Somebody should build them a water park!

Celebrating Crepe Myrtles

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Right now, I’m having a mini love affair with crepe myrtles.

It started a couple of months ago when we had some landscaping done, and the workers accidentally broke off the emerging shoot from a newly planted crepe myrtle on one side of our house.

No big deal, they assured us. It’ll grow right back.

Seriously?

I wasn’t taking any chances. Frantically, I fertilized and watered it, checking daily to see whether it would produce another shoot. At length, I saw a tiny speck of green, which grew and multiplied into what’s now an almost-foot-high plant!

There are lots of varieties of crepe myrtle. Some are hardier for cooler climates; some are shrub-height, some are trees. When they bloom, they do so in a variety of colors, including pale pink, watermelon pink, lilac, coral, and white. Crepe myrtles love lots of sunshine and summer heat; they do best in Zones 7-9, which encompasses the southern region of the U.S. from about Cairo, IL, south to the Gulf of Mexico.

While I’m farther north than that, the store where we bought this plant assured us it would do just fine. I hope so because I can hardly wait to see its predicted watermelon pink blossoms!

On a recent trip to South Mississippi, I enjoyed a profusion of crepe myrtles along the highway medians, in people’s yards, beside office buildings. Oddly, the farther south we went, the fewer the explosion of flowers (probably something to do with the coastal region’s wetter weather conditions).

Anyway, I captured a few photos of some crepe myrtles for those who (like my blogging friend Wendy over at Herding Cats in Hammond River) aren’t familiar with this gorgeous plant.

Enjoy!

White crepe myrtle

Lilac crepe myrtles

Pink crepe myrtle

Crepe myrtle bark

More crepe myrtles in lilac

Watermelon pink crepe myrtle

Weighing the Options when it Comes to Care for the Elderly

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Earlier this year, one of my dear elderly neighbors slipped in her garage, broke a hip, and landed in a rehab facility. She’s been there for the maximum three months; now it’s decision time for her kids.

Should they:

  • Bring her home and hope she can handle life all by herself, or
  • Transfer her to a nursing home permanently

It’s not an easy choice. On the one hand, she’s frail, never really exercised, and lives alone. On the other, she owns a one-story home, is financially comfortable, still possesses her wits, still drives, and has caring neighbors to check on her. And her kids live nearby.

How old is “too old” to look after oneself? Eighty? Ninety? I’ve known people at twenty-one who were unable to tend to themselves, either because of mental or physical disabilities or because of sheer laziness. I’ve also known people at forty who were unable (or unwilling) to look after themselves. So it doesn’t appear to come down to age.

Still, all of us eventually (if we live long enough!) are going to face this dilemma, whether for our parents or for ourselves. I wonder how many have made provisions? How many have even made their wishes known to their loved ones?

My neighbor’s kids have been fixing up their mother’s home, roofing and painting and all that. They’ve done it on the sly, coaxing the neighbors not to tell their mother because they wanted to surprise her.

I’d like to believe they did it out of the kindness of their hearts (with maybe a tiny bit of weariness over hearing their mom complain the house was “as old as she was.”) I’d like to think she’d ooh and aah when she’d walk in, marveling over the makeover and eagerly anticipating the rest of her life in a like-new dwelling.

But something tells me she won’t get to see the improvements.

You see, one of the kids confided to another neighbor that they intend to sell the house and move their mom to a nursing home.

She forgets things, they said. She might fall again, the house is too big for one woman, she needs to be around other people.

Huh?

This is a woman who likes her privacy, who never really was a social butterfly, who was comfortable in her surroundings. She could afford to hire a caretaker — full or part time, live-in or not — to help out, to ensure her dignity remains intact, and to permit her to stay in her own home.

I wonder if her kids even asked her wishes or if they simply decided what was best for her (and easiest for them). Knowing my neighbor, she’d agree to anything that wouldn’t inconvenience her loved ones. She’s that selfless.

But most studies nowadays confirm that people tend to do better and live longer in their own home. Shouldn’t she be given that chance, rather than shipped off to a group facility where she’s surrounded by people lying in beds or sitting in wheelchairs, staring out windows and waiting to die?