The High Price of Feeling Fancy
A couple of months ago this new market opened up by our house. It's this massive grocery store with a Starbucks and a Jamba Juice inside (a point Kelly enthusiastically noted on at least three occasions.) The store is Eco-friendly with motion activated lighting in the freezers, a wine selection for the true connoisseur and an employee around every corner waiting to wipe your butt.
The nerdy research people who developed this super center knew what they were doing when they plopped the big boxed market right in the middle of West Hollywood, affectionately known as gay-town. This neighborhood is predominately middle-aged, homosexual, upper middle class men and from what I can tell the boys are more than willing to flash their Amex for expensive imported cheeses and designer coffee. This is a grocery that makes an experience out of the most mundane of activities.
I have to be honest it wasn't just the convenient proximity of this store that made it my market of choice. I liked the lighting, the friendly employees, the beautiful flower selection. Shopping there made me feel... I don't know, this seems silly to say, but maybe a little fancy. Anyway, suffice to say, I liked getting groceries there. That changed yesterday though.
I stopped after work for a pretty major shop. I wanted to do something nice for Kelly and his kiddies so I really stocked the cart getting all their favorite things (and a few of mine too!) I pushed my mountain of purchases up to the checkout and began unloading. As I swiped my card the little machine blinked digitally:
Would you like to donate to breast cancer research?
Sure I thought. Cancer can kiss my ass. Of course I can donate five dollars in the fight and pressed the yes button.
A few minutes later the cashier totalled my purchases and turned to me, "Would you like to donate to breast cancer research?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah. I did already," I said just the teeniest bit annoyed.
"Oops! Yes, you did! Well thank you for that!" he said cheerfully.
I smiled and threw my body against the overflowing cart to get it to move. Just as I walked through the sliding doors a man with a clipboard came towards me.
"Would you like to help the fight for gay marriage?" he said, his voice full of hope.
"Um sure. What can I do?" I asked. I was tired and it was raining and I really wanted to get home but I also felt a little guilty and like a fraud if I didn't contribute my signature to his cause. I am a supporter of equal rights after all. Unfortunately it wasn't my autograph he wanted.
"Today we're collecting donations so that we can open an office in Orange County. Did you know that Prop 8 was voted ninety percent in favor down there?" he asked, not stopping for my response. "We need more resources to educate the community that this is a civil rights issue so that people like my boyfriend and I can be married since we didn't get the chance the first time around," he finished breathless.
"Okay, well I don't have any money so is there any other way I can help?" I asked. My voice was kind but there was a tinge of impatience.
He looked at my shopping cart brimming with food fit for a village, looked back at me and said matter-of-factly, "No. If you can't contribute financially just please keep us in mind when you can." He was soliciting his next target before I moved away from him.
I grunted as I pushed the behemoth load of food toward my car. I was unloading bag after bag into my trunk when a ragged homeless man approached me.
"Miss, can you spare any change?" he asked. His head shook slightly and he averted his eyes as he awaited my response.
"I'm so sorry. I have no cash," I responded. I gladly would have given him something to eat. Yet, that wasn't what he wanted. He slumped off.
I got into my car and felt irritated. This never happened at the market I usually shop at in the ghetto. Over there people are poor like me and the homeless know not to hang around asking for handouts. The non-profits don't hit up the customers and if they do all they're looking for is a signature for a petition. And the cashiers never ask if you want to donate to charity because most of the shoppers are using food stamps to pay. It's not that I don't care about the community I live in and contributing to it, it's just that the barrage of requests all within a three minute time span left me feeling a lot like a father on payday. Everybody had their hand out.
I looked over the receipt this morning and realized that there was a pretty price added to my luxury grocery shopping experience. Every single thing I bought seemed to be just a little more expensive then I was used to... which explained the bill being the biggest I've ever had when buying for four.
Maybe the market made me feel a little fancy but the truth is I'm too broke to afford the experience. Or too practical to care so much about imported cheese and exotic flowers. Besides my pockets aren't deep enough to save the whales, free Tibet and fund drug and alcohol abuse for the city's homeless. Next time I'll be shopping at the Fresh and Easy. At least there I don't feel guilty being on a budget.
The nerdy research people who developed this super center knew what they were doing when they plopped the big boxed market right in the middle of West Hollywood, affectionately known as gay-town. This neighborhood is predominately middle-aged, homosexual, upper middle class men and from what I can tell the boys are more than willing to flash their Amex for expensive imported cheeses and designer coffee. This is a grocery that makes an experience out of the most mundane of activities.
I have to be honest it wasn't just the convenient proximity of this store that made it my market of choice. I liked the lighting, the friendly employees, the beautiful flower selection. Shopping there made me feel... I don't know, this seems silly to say, but maybe a little fancy. Anyway, suffice to say, I liked getting groceries there. That changed yesterday though.
I stopped after work for a pretty major shop. I wanted to do something nice for Kelly and his kiddies so I really stocked the cart getting all their favorite things (and a few of mine too!) I pushed my mountain of purchases up to the checkout and began unloading. As I swiped my card the little machine blinked digitally:
Would you like to donate to breast cancer research?
Sure I thought. Cancer can kiss my ass. Of course I can donate five dollars in the fight and pressed the yes button.
A few minutes later the cashier totalled my purchases and turned to me, "Would you like to donate to breast cancer research?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah. I did already," I said just the teeniest bit annoyed.
"Oops! Yes, you did! Well thank you for that!" he said cheerfully.
I smiled and threw my body against the overflowing cart to get it to move. Just as I walked through the sliding doors a man with a clipboard came towards me.
"Would you like to help the fight for gay marriage?" he said, his voice full of hope.
"Um sure. What can I do?" I asked. I was tired and it was raining and I really wanted to get home but I also felt a little guilty and like a fraud if I didn't contribute my signature to his cause. I am a supporter of equal rights after all. Unfortunately it wasn't my autograph he wanted.
"Today we're collecting donations so that we can open an office in Orange County. Did you know that Prop 8 was voted ninety percent in favor down there?" he asked, not stopping for my response. "We need more resources to educate the community that this is a civil rights issue so that people like my boyfriend and I can be married since we didn't get the chance the first time around," he finished breathless.
"Okay, well I don't have any money so is there any other way I can help?" I asked. My voice was kind but there was a tinge of impatience.
He looked at my shopping cart brimming with food fit for a village, looked back at me and said matter-of-factly, "No. If you can't contribute financially just please keep us in mind when you can." He was soliciting his next target before I moved away from him.
I grunted as I pushed the behemoth load of food toward my car. I was unloading bag after bag into my trunk when a ragged homeless man approached me.
"Miss, can you spare any change?" he asked. His head shook slightly and he averted his eyes as he awaited my response.
"I'm so sorry. I have no cash," I responded. I gladly would have given him something to eat. Yet, that wasn't what he wanted. He slumped off.
I got into my car and felt irritated. This never happened at the market I usually shop at in the ghetto. Over there people are poor like me and the homeless know not to hang around asking for handouts. The non-profits don't hit up the customers and if they do all they're looking for is a signature for a petition. And the cashiers never ask if you want to donate to charity because most of the shoppers are using food stamps to pay. It's not that I don't care about the community I live in and contributing to it, it's just that the barrage of requests all within a three minute time span left me feeling a lot like a father on payday. Everybody had their hand out.
I looked over the receipt this morning and realized that there was a pretty price added to my luxury grocery shopping experience. Every single thing I bought seemed to be just a little more expensive then I was used to... which explained the bill being the biggest I've ever had when buying for four.
Maybe the market made me feel a little fancy but the truth is I'm too broke to afford the experience. Or too practical to care so much about imported cheese and exotic flowers. Besides my pockets aren't deep enough to save the whales, free Tibet and fund drug and alcohol abuse for the city's homeless. Next time I'll be shopping at the Fresh and Easy. At least there I don't feel guilty being on a budget.
Comments
Post a Comment