Why I am a bad consumer

The other day I needed to replace something.  I realize "something" is vague; for the purposes of this exploration let's call it the sturdy hand towel, that has graced my downstairs bathroom for years, or perhaps it was a search for a bright shiny saucepan to replace the one that's been seasoned perfectly and dented by years of use.   No matter, I had a mission.

There is a problem living in a quiet neighborhood.  Most other places qualify as  sensory overload, and so it was with my excursion.  It was not the cinnamon scented Yankee candles, it was not the rows of Thanksgiving knicks and knacks, nor the spry and fey Santas so festively garlanded.  Nope.  It was the announcers coming from the tv monitors.

The announcers, certain of my reluctance to buy and incompetence in using their products, stalked me through the rows and aisles.  They insisted I learn how to build a gingerbread train using their kit; how to set a perfect table; how to fold a napkin; how to use a swiffer; how to competently snap shut their storage boxes, how to use a magazine rack, over and over and over again.  I surrendered my credit cards to the first store clerk I came across, and fled.