November 21, 2014--Best of Behind: Black Friday

From November 25, 2012, here's a report about Black Friday. I mentioned Occupy Wall Street. Remember them? I hadn't thought about them for some time. How easy, how quickly we forget--

Every year all the newspapers and every TV station run reports about Black Friday, the day retailers hope that on their P&L statements they will finally begin to show a profit, move from the red into the black. 

The stories are always about how much sales are expected to increase over the year before, how early the stores will be opening, and then the frenzy when the doors finally are opened and shoppers--many of whom have been lined up for days--literally trample each other in a race to buy the latest flat-screen TV for 75% off.

This year, thanks to Occupy Wall Street which, if nothing else, has raised awareness about growing economic inequality, some of what is being reported includes inequalities in holiday shopping itself. Would the following have appeared even in the "liberal" New York Times--replete this time of year with ads for Tiffany and Rolex--if not for the Occupy folks?

One the front page, above the fold, under the headline, "Opening Day For Shoppers Shows Divide," the Times reports:

As the busiest retail weekend of the year began late Thursday night, the differences between how affluent and more ordinary Americans shop in the uncertain economy will be on unusually vivid display.

Budget-minded shoppers will be racing for bargains at ever-earlier hours while the rich mostly will not be bothering to leave home.

Toys “R” Us, Wal-Mart, Macy’s, Kohl’s, Best Buy and Target will start their Black Friday sales earlier than ever—at 9 and 10 p.m. Thursday night in some instances--with dirt-cheap offers intended to secure their customers’ limited dollars. A half a day later, on Friday morning, higher-end stores like Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, and Nordstrom will open with only a sprinkling of special sales.

The low-end and midrange retailers are risking low margins as they cut prices to attract shoppers, while executives at luxury stores say that they are actually able to sell more at full price than in recent boom years.

“We’re now into a less promotional environment than we were before the recession,“ said Stephen I. Sadove, chairman and chief executive of Saks. In the third quarter, for instance, Saks reduced the length of an annual sale to three days from four, and excluded the high-margin category of cosmetics from another regular sale.

The Times goes on to note that Neiman Marcus, via their "fantasy" catalog, which traditionally features very high-end stuff, this year, within 50 minutes, sold out of Ferraris at $395,000 each. All 10 of them.

November 20, 2014--NY, NY: Sleep Like the Dead

"This is more like a hammock than a bed," Rona said, "I think it's time we look for a new mattress."

"We didn't get this one that long ago," I said, trying to avoid having to go through the process of testing dozens of mattresses and, knowing us, having to pay at least $5,000 for a new one.

As if reading my mind, Rona said, "We can go to Macy's and Bloomingdales. They have large bedding departments and they're both having sales. So it won't cost us a fortune to buy a new one." And to add urgency, knowing my tendency to procrastinate about such matters, "I'll bet we find one we both like in a few hours. Then there's next day delivery and--"

"And I know your back's been bothering you," I said, trying to sound empathetic

"A new mattress will also help you sleep better. You have so much on your mind these days that sleeping on this old thing only makes it worse."

"How long has it been since--?"

"Ten or eleven years." Looking at me lovingly, she added, "And it will also make other aspects of our life more enjoyable. We--"

"You mean when watching TV in bed?"

"That too," she smiled.

*   *   *

And so later that day we found ourselves in Macy's mattress department. The first of three visits. It's taking us that long to make up our minds. It's one of those things couples who sleep together, as we do on a queen-size bed, have to agree about. Or, spend enough time shopping that one or the other capitulates and agrees to get a mattress with or without a pillow top or with or without Tempurpedic-type memory foam or . . .

"Let's try the Stearns & Fosters again," Rona suggested, sounding tired. We were at Macy's for a second time and, feeling we'd made progress, having eliminated most of the Beautyrests and neither one of us could quite get used to being enveloped in beds made of high-tech foam. "I liked the ones without the pillow tops--I think from the Euro line--but you seemed to prefer the ones with them."

"True," I said, "Though, like you, I also liked the Stearns & Foster Beckinsale without the pillow top. To be honest, since I sleep mainly on my side, the softness of the pillow top on top of the ultra-firm mattress feels a bit more comfortable to me."

I emphasized the bit more since about beds I'm prone to compromise and was setting the stage to capitulate from my slight preference for pillow-tops.

"You know, though we've spent a lot of time here already, maybe we should go home now before we confuse and exhaust ourselves more and--"

"I did almost fall asleep a few minutes ago," I said, "On the pillow top Beckinsale," I wasn't capitulating yet, "So maybe, as you say, let's go home, take a nap, and then come back tomorrow and go right back to our two top choices. To avoid confusing ourselves further. After a while all the mattresses start to feel the same to me. The good news is that they also all feel good to me. Except for the Tempurpedics. Astronauts may like memory foam but I feel as if I'm being swallowed up in it."

*   *   *

The next day, on our third visit, we did avoid any further searching and went right back to the two Beckinsales. Rona to the one she was inclining toward and me to my pillow-top. Across the selling floor, with couples sprawled in all the beds between us, which in itself was an interesting experience, we called back and forth to each other, sharing our third impressions.

"I'm good with both," I said to reassure Rona that the selection process wouldn't go on forever. "Though--"

"I know," she called back across the Beautyrests, "You still prefer the pillow-tops. Why don't you come join me so we can see again how this one feels. With the two of us in bed together. To see how we experience it when one of us rolls over to change sleeping positions. How much the other feels. I think mattress stability is something we should consider since both of us do quite a bit of tossing and turning."

"And getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I don't want to worry that my doing that will cause the bounce on your side to be so strong that you'll wind up on the floor."

"Good point," Rona said.

So when I slid in next to her we both did lots of intentional tossing and turning and discovered, to make things more unsettled, that the mattress did do a bit too much reciprocal bouncing. Enough to make neither of us feel certain the Beckinsale without the pillow-top would work for us.

Maybe," I suggested tentatively, "we should try the pillow-top to see if maybe--"

"Let's go to Bloomingdales," Rona said, cutting me off, "We're back to square one. Since none of the ones here at Macy's are quite right for either or both of us I think we should look further. A bed is a big deal--we spend so much time in bed. watching TV, listening to music, and--"

"Reading, a lot of reading, not to mention sleeping. And also we shouldn't rush into a decision considering how expensive they are."

"Forget the money," Rona said, beginning to get aggravated with me. Even $2,000 for a bed and box spring spread over ten years amounts to only a couple of hundred dollars a year. Less than we pay for electricity for the TV."

*   *   *

So, wouldn't you know, the first mattress I tried at Bloomingdales was one made by hand by Kluft with a list price of $36,000. Thirty-six thousand dollars.

I called to Rona who was across from me trying one of the Shifmans. "You'll never believe this."

"What?" From her tone I knew the Shifman was not working for her.

"How much these go for." I patted the Kluft mattress. "Take a guess."

"The way you're posing this, probably quite a lot. I never heard of Kluft before. It must be a Bloomingdales' exclusive. OK. I'll say $15,000." She look over at me exasperated.

"Try more than twice that." I was in a state of shock.

"Welcome to the world of one-percenters," Rona said. "Look, if people are shelling out $50 million or more for an apartment, what would you expect them to spend on a mattress? 'Only' a few thousand like this Shifman?"

"But $36,000?"

"Take a look. Maybe it's on sale."

I looked again at the price tag and sure enough it was. "They're asking 'only' $22,000," I said. "But it probably includes free shipping." I was being facetious.

"That doesn't sound that bad to me. Hey, you only live once." I made a face. "At that price it must be amazingly comfortable."

"To tell you the truth it doesn't feel that much better than the Beckinsales at Macy's. But let's see what else they have."

"Lots of Stearns & Fosters," Rona noted. "Since we thought we liked them at Macy's maybe there are some special models they make for Bloomingdales that won't cause a tsunami when one of us gets up to go to the bathroom."

"Like the old waterbeds," I said. "Though back in the day they were pretty sexy."

"Speaking of that," Rona said, "I wonder how much people buying beds think about that."

"About what?"

"About sex, silly. Beside sleeping and watching TV that's probably what people do most when in bed. At least when they're young." She winked affectionately at me.

"Good point," I said.

So after trying about a dozen more mattresses we agreed that one of the Bloomingdales' Stearns & Fosters, their version of, I think, the Beckinsale we sort of liked at Macy's, was our new favorite.

"Again,"Rona said, "rather than deciding today, let's go back to Macy's one last time--"

"For old time sake?"

"No, to be sure. But then let's come back here tomorrow to see how this one feels and then decide." Sensing my exhaustion with the process, she assured me that we would make a decision the next day.

"One more thing," I said. "The salesman here has been very nice and since it's not busy, I have one more thing to ask him about."

"What's that? We've already peppered him with questions about all the different kinds of latex and foam and the advantages of each coil being hand wrapped and--"

"True, but tag along. You'll see. Just one more question."

Before I could signal to him that we had still another thing to ask he noticed us looking his way--good salesman technique--and walked quickly toward where we were once again hoisting ourselves off the Stearns & Foster. Causing no ripples of movement--a good sign.

"I don't exactly know how to ask this," I said, glancing toward him.

"No problem. Anything," he smiled.

"Do people ever ask you about how this or that mattress is for, well, sex?" I lowered my eyes but sensed Rona tensing.

"All the time," he chirped. "Especially younger customers. Though people your age," he meant me, "also ask."

"And you tell them?" I felt Rona punching me in the back.

"I tell them, like everything else about beds, it's all about how they feel."

"That's it?"

"And, yes, I do direct them to a website that compares mattresses. About all sorts of things, including what you're asking about."

"That website would be?" Rona asked, half hidden behind me.

"It's called Sleep Like the Dead."

"I love it," I said.

*   *   *

Back home, as soon as we hung up our coats we raced each other to the computer to look up Sleep Like the Dead.

"I of course am interested in durability and how cool the mattress feels," Rona said, as if I would believe her.

"At the moment I'm more interested in the raunchy stuff," I said. "I can't wait to see how they test mattresses for sex. Maybe sort of like the way Masters and Johnson did their experiments? In a lab or something?"

"You're being silly again."

By then I had clicked on Sleep Like the Dead and found that the website indeed focused on comparisons between air mattresses and futons and mattresses with innersprings as well as those made of latex or memory foam and even my old water beds.

There were ratings from consumers about pillows--down versus feather versus foam versus polyester; and sleeping pill reviews that compared Ambien with Lunesta and Melatonin.

And sure enough, the category I was searching for--Mattress Types and Sex Suitability Ratings and Comparisons.

"Suitability?" Rona wondered.

"A bit odd sounding to me too," I said. "But check this out." Rona leaned closer to me to get a better look at the computer screen. "To me the ratings and comparisons seem very thorough and professional. But see how on the top line of this multi-colored chart they rate mattresses types for Active Sex Friendly."

"Air mattresses get a C+," Rona read, "while Memory Foam gets only a D+, Water a C," she poked me again, "Latex a B-, and our good-old Innerspring a B-. Not bad."

"We can look at all the intimate details--forgive me--later. But take a look at the Many Positions ratings. Air gets a C+, Memory Foam a C, Water a surprising C- . . ."

"That shouldn't be such a surprise. When you had your famous, sexy waterbed, you were 50 years younger and --"

"Thanks for reminding me. But let me finish. Latex gets a B- for Many Positions and our basic innerspring a straight B! Very cool."

"You remember that old commercial for Dial-A-Mattress?" Rona asked.

"Yes, their jingle, 'Dial 1 800 MATTRESS and leave the last S off for Savings.'"

"For this it could be 'Dial 1 800 MATTRESS and leave the last S off for Sex!"

*   *   *

Later that night, on our old hammock of a Serta Perfect Sleeper, we . . .

April 10, 2014--Snowbirding: Half-and-Half

Parking at Walmart in Delray is more likely to get Rona and me spatting than even my tentative approach to left turns.

For example, yesterday--

"You park like you're an old man."

"I'm just trying to be cautious. With people backing in and out and others pushing shopping carts all over the place in the roadway, I think it's smart to be extra careful."

"I think the way you park is the way old men drive."

That would be enough to get us not talking to each other and leave me on my own--as I then was--to creep up and down the aisles looking for a space that I could squeeze into that wasn't filled with abandoned shopping carts.

And yesterday, making matters worse, there was a truly old man in the road in which I was waiting to pounce on an empty space, attempting wobbly to navigate a motorized wheelchair in the basket of which was stashed a folded walker.

"I wonder what he's doing," I said, knowing Rona was ignoring me and I was in effect talking to myself. "I can't believe he's looking for a car. From the looks of him they shouldn't even let him drive one of these electric scooters." I was aggravated and not feeling compassionate.

"He's probably . . . can't . . . This makes me . . . I don't know." That was Rona sputtering to herself.

"What did you say?" I was hoping to break the ice by having us talk about someone with even more driving issues than I.

"He's probably a Silver Alert person." Puzzled, I looked toward Rona. "You know, someone who has Alzheimer's, or something, who wandered off and the police and his family are looking for him. This makes me crazy. I think of myself as understanding and empathetic but this is . . ."

"You are. You are." I thought if I said it emphatically Rona would believe me and we could resume being civil to each other.

"Look. He found his car. Can you believe it? He's trying to get into it. He can't drive a scooter, but a car?"

I sighed in agreement.

"You know I love being here and I love you, but I'm glad we're heading north at the end of the week. I need a dose of New York. And I know--you don't have to say it--after three weeks I'll want to leave Manhattan and hide out in Maine."

"Let's make a quick hit here." I had finally eased into a parking space. "All we need is some bottled water and laundry detergent. We could have avoided Walmart and gone to Publix, but we were in the neighborhood and so I thought . . ."

"That's OK, love," Rona was at last smiling, "I can handle one more trip to Walmarts. Ordinarily I really like them. But it's just so hot, I didn't sleep well last night, and I guess in spite of myself I'm having some separation anxiety. It won't be easy to leave your mother. She's not doing as well as she was back in January and at nearly 106 you never . . ."

"I know. I know," I sighed.

"Let's get this over with quickly and head home. I think we both could use a nap."

"Deal." We exchanged high-fives.

Once inside we quickly rounded up the water and detergent. "Can you believe it, this laundry soap is less than $4.00. At Publix it would be twice that. I suppose that's why we're here like millions of others."

"Billions," I corrected her.

"It is a little funny," Rona said, "to be here on Equal Pay Day. Walmart's a case in point about why we need that--more equal pay regulations."

"Indeed, indeed." I noticed I was repeating everything. Another sign of aging that annoyed Rona. This time thankfully she let it pass.

"I almost forgot."

"What's that?"

"We need a small container of half-and-half. We have three more breakfasts before we leave and I ran out this morning. I don't remember where they keep it. We never buy it here."

"I think over there where they have the orange juice. Sometimes we get our Tropicana here. The prices again are . . ."

"Yes. I see the refrigerator chest over there by the wall." Rona cut me off, clearly having had enough talk about comparison-shopping. We were soon to be back in about the most expensive place in the world, New York, where my yogurts are by now probably $2.00 rather than the 72 cents we paid for them last week at Publix. Rona understandably, before the fact, didn't want to make the sticker-shock worse that it inevitably will be.

I pushed the shopping cart toward the juice and cream chest and stopped a few paces away. "Where do they hide the half-and-half," I muttered, scanning the shelves. "It must be near here somewhere. Ah, I think it's over there right by the whipping cream."

"I see," Rona said, "But what's going on over there?"

"I don't know."

"There," she pointed, "There's an old man holding onto the door handle of the other refrigerator. It looks like he's having a seizure or heart attack or something."

Concerned but not knowing what to do, I asked, "What do you mean? He looks like . . ."

"Like he's holding himself up by clinging to the handle."

"Maybe I should tell someone who works here that . . ."

"Before you do, let's see if we can help him."

By then we were within five or six feet of where he was obviously struggling with something. Maybe Rona is right, I thought, that he's experiencing some kind medical incident.

"Do you hear that?" Rona whispered. She had stopped and held onto the cart so I wouldn't push it any closer.

"Shouldn't we . . . ?"

"Quiet. I want to listen."

"Listen to what? He looks like he's in trouble."

"I forget you can barely hear anything. But I think he's OK. He's talking. He must be using a cell phone. Like in New York, you remember, all the people walking in the streets who appear to be talking to themselves but are on their iPhones."

I did remember that. In fact I hate it. But how unusual, I thought, that someone who looks as if he's at least 90 should be doing the same thing that twenty-somethings do so routinely.

But I did hear him talking. Actually, it sounded as if he was having an argument.

"If I told you once, I told you a thousand times," he yelled, hunched for privacy close to the refrigerator door, "leave her be." He was gesturing with his free hand. "You don't need this. No more. Enough."

"I think . . ." I said.

"Quiet. I don't want us to disturb him. And also, I want . . ."

"I know, to listen."

"Like I told you," he continued, still agitated, "she's no good. No good. What did she ever do for you except make your life miserable? Miserable. You did this; you did that. Always thinking about her. Her good-for-nothing husband. Her children who never raised a finger to help. You, always you. Always you." His shoulders were heaving and it looked as if he was about to cry.

Rona moved us half a step closer and held a finger up to her lips to shush me.

"Remember when she came home from the hospital. After her hipso-memory operation. Who took her in? Who took care of her? Nursed her? Bathed her? Took her back and forth to the doctor?" His whole upper body throbbed. "You. You. You. No one else. You. Who gave up your bed for her and slept on the sofa? And for how long? Days? Weeks? No, months. Months."

I noticed, like me, he too was repeating himself.

"For days and days after she was strong enough to go home. If I didn't put my foot down she would still be living with us. Even though she's dead, she'd still be living with us. Wanting you to take care of her. To do her every bidding." I heard the beginning of a sob.

"And now? What now?"

By then there was someone else standing next to us who apparently needed some orange juice, But she too didn't advance further and stood patiently next to me.

"Gone. Everything is gone. Everyone gone. Over. Nothing is left. Fartik. Turned to scheisse. Scheisse. Shit!"

With that he let go of the handle, turned, and, trembling with tears, shuffled unsteadily toward the front of the store.

Rona stroked his back as he passed close to her. I looked the other way at the woman who was loading a quart of juice into her cart.

There was no cell phone.

February 24, 2014--Snowbirding--At Publix

Rona was planning to bake oatmeal cookies and needed a few ingredients--sugar, dried currents, oat meal, and butter.

Publix was not crowded and it took just 15 minutes to round things up. Even the checkout lines were shorter than unusual--it was a beautiful afternoon and we assumed everyone was either at the park or on the beach. But after paying and halfway to the parking lot, Rona slapped her thigh and said, "Butter!"

"Butter?"

"Can you believe it, I forgot the butter. Sit there for a minute and I'll go back to get some."

The "there" was a bench right by the entrance which is usually where elderly folks sit while waiting for the bus to take them back to their assisting-living places in west Delray. I had never sat there or wanted to be seen anywhere near those benches--I didn't want anyone to confuse me with the ladies from Brookside.

"I'm fine hanging out here by the ice cube chest. You'll only be a minute so I'll be fine and  . . ."

"You look exhausted. We've been running around all day and it's hot and humid. Sit. It won't kill you."

"If it won't kill you maybe it won't kill me," a woman on the bench who looked to be well into her 90s called to me and patted the space just to the right of her.

She sensed my hesitation and smiled, tapping the cushion again. "Come. As your niece says, you look exhausted."

"She's my wife," I said, examining the bags of ice cubes, humming to myself.

"Sorry Dearie. My eyes aren't what they used to be. Nothing is like it used to be," she laughed, "But I can see, if I squint, that she's maybe older than she looks. And maybe," she was quick to add, "you aren't as old as I was thinking." Again she chuckled. "Living here everyone, everything looks old. The only young people I see are the aides where I live and some of the shoppers. Which is why I sit here. The bus takes us to shop but I don't shop. What do I need from Publix? Brookside gives us everything we need."

She pointed again at the seat next to her and nodded her head toward it to indicate it was for me.

I was tired, that was true, and so with a shrug of resignation I plopped down next to her.

"Isn't that better? Rest while your wife does the shopping. What else is there to do." She didn't pose this as a question.

"Well, actually, lots of things." I didn't want to appear to be agreeing with her. "All we need is butter. We, she, Rona is baking oatmeal cookies and we forgot the butter. And I'm . . ."

"Like you said, doing 'lots of things.'" She smiled knowingly.

About what she was knowing I wasn't sure, but it felt as if she was having fun at my expense. There was an edge to her, which I generally like in someone her age. But not when directed at me, especially when I'm overtired. All we needed was a pound of butter. What I needed was a nap. I hadn't been sleeping well and the humidity and pollen in the air were getting to me.

"So you live here?"

"Not really. We're here for the winter primarily to be near my mother, who is quite old. She's good, but still . . ."

"I know the 'but still' business. My son lives in Chicago and comes four or five times a year for visits. He's retired and could be here more; but . . . "

"I also know the 'but' business." I thought fair was fair in the needling business.

"I know what you're thinking. But still it's better this way."

"What way is that?"

"Visiting, not living. Though, like you he could be a snowbird. It's so cold in Chicago." She sighed, then added, "To tell you the truth, I'm glad my son only comes for visits. I don't want him to turn into me."

"To tell you the truth . . . ," I tried to say.

"The truth is that you actually like it here." I attempted to remain expressionless. "You don't want to admit that. You say you're here because of your mother, but I can tell. You look to me like you're enjoying living here in spite of yourself."

"I don't live here." I didn't understand why I had allowed myself to be drawn into this. I was tired and . . .

"OK. I misspoke. You don't live here. Have it your way. But, you do like it here? No?"

"In a way," I confessed under my breath, hoping she wouldn't hear. And then, to change the subject, I said, "I wonder what's keeping Rona. All she needed was butter."

"But you hate it, don't you, that if you told people you live here or spend half the year here they'll think you're an alta cocka, which means . . ."

"I know what it means."

"That you don't like. For people to think of you that way."

"Do you?"

"I hate it." The intensity of her response surprised me. "People look at me, actually they avoid looking at me because they think I'm just a little-old-lady. They know nothing about me but that's all they see. Or rather try not to see. Like I don't exist." She paused then said, "I hate being old. Living the way I do. With people half of whom don't know who they are or only talk about their 'conditions,'" she made air quotes, "and their grandchildren. They're like clichés--complaining about how their children never call or visit."

"I know what you mean," I said softly.

"So you're lucky to still have your mind and such a beautiful wife. Even if she wasn't so beautiful you would still be lucky. Just having someone is lucky." I was glad to see she was smiling.

"I don't know what to say. But I am . . ."

"Lucky. Say it. You can say it."

I said, "Lucky."

"Does that make you feel better?" She had turned to face me.

"Yes, but . . . not really."

"Because?"

"Because that means that tomorrow I could be just as unlucky as I am lucky today."

"That sounds very complicated--lucky today, unlucky tomorrow. Remember I'm a little-old-lady with only half a mind."

"That I doubt."

"Doubt what?"

"The half-a-mind business."

"So why did he put me in Brookside?"

"He being?"

"My wonderful son."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Partly," she confessed and then interrupted herself, "Look. See what I mean?" She was pointing to a thirty-something couple with two young tow-headed children who had entered the store. "That's why I like sitting here. See how happy they look. It reminds me of when I was younger and looked forward to the future. Now to me the future looks less happy. In fact, not happy at all."

"But you're . . ."

"Like I told you, a little-old-lady."

"In a nice place, well taken care of, with a son who calls and visits, and . . ."

"A little-old-lady," she repeated with a flat voice.

"Old, yes," I said, "But not little."

"If I could stand up I would show you little."

"That's not what I'm talking about. Not how tall or short you are but . . ."

"I appreciate you're trying to make me feel better. That's very sweet of you." She touched my arm. "But soon you'll see what I mean. I mean you won't turn into a little-old-lady, but there is the inevitable." She sighed and said, "I don't know what made me say these things to you."

"That's all right," I said, "I understand."

"Maybe yes. Maybe no. Well," she began to get up using her walker for support, "I think I see my bus. They're here to collect me. To take me back." She shook her head about that prospect.

"Can I help you?" I stood up and reached out to help her.

"I'm fine thank you. That is, for a little-old-lady." She laughed as she shuffled toward the door.

At the same time Rona reappeared. "What you been up to?" she asked showing me the butter.

"Nothing much," I lied. "Just hanging out waiting for you."