January 7, 2001

I am gonna go out on a limb here and say without qualification that there is altogether too much attitude floatin' around this fine city. We don't need anymore. Pack it back up in its original box and return to sender. If attitude were Brim (and who's to say it's not?), we would've been filled up to the rim a long, long time ago. And, well, where is Brim now, I ask you? Just where the hell is Brim now!?

God, how I wish attitude were Brim.

A few weeks ago, I found myself straddling the border of Soho and Tribeca at around noon. I was working at the ad agency on Hudson and King at 1:00, and had completely miscalculated how long it would take me to get down there. Part of the miscalculation had to do with the fact that I hadn't decided if I was going to walk or take the subway until I hit the streets and realized how goddamn cold it was, but a bigger part was due to the fact that that area of town is such a violently different world than the one I usually inhabit that I couldn't imagine it taking a mere 20 minutes to get there, no matter what the means of transport.

What I'm trying to say is, I had some time to kill. I also had a gift certificate that entitled me to ten dollars off my next purchase of any Origins product to which I happened to take a shine. I received this gift certificate (coupon, really, but the word "coupon" paints a picture of me sitting at home alone in a bathrobe and slippers, curlers in my hair, scissors at the ready, heartbeat racing in near jubilation as I cut along the dotted line to save 20 cents off a 5-pound bag of kitty litter, which is all the more depressing because I don't own a cat) in the mail, because apparently I am a valued customer. I am a valued customer because I have made one, maybe two, purchases of their dreamy detangling conditioner (Knot-Free, supposedly smells like grapefruit, but I don't see it) in the past two years. I get the big giant freak bottle that retails for, I think, $28.00. It's a lot of conditioner. I have a lot of hair.

So I had this gift certificate, and I had to use it by December 31st, which was quickly approaching. And I was in Soho. Hey, I thought, there's an Origins store somewhere around here. I will quickly pop in and see what cheapy little things they have for ten dollars; what essential beauty aids didn't sell too well during the holidays, and whose prices are now so low, they're practically giving them away.

I find the store on West Broadway and Spring, and go in. It is, as I mentioned earlier, wicked cold out, and so, I am wearing unflattering cold-weather gear. A green polartec hat. Black polartec mittens. A black coat that is basically a floor-length down comforter with arms. Sexy, sexy, sexy. My hair is up in a bun that I have impaled with a chopstick, and so, with the hat on, I look…well, I just look like I have a heartbreakingly large and tragically misshapen head. But I am warm, so I am happy. I figure everyone else will be dressed equally but practically unappealingly. It's cold, for god's sake.

It's also Soho, trendy fashion capital of the world. This, I had forgotten. So, when I walk in and get looked at by no fewer than three customers and two employees as if I were gnawing on the arm of a tiny, defenseless baby, I feel a little self-conscious. Everyone else is wearing cute little leather jackets from Banana Republic and chenille gloves that offer no protection from the elements whatsoever, but, more importantly, are also cute and little. Their hair is perfect. Their makeup is perfect. I am wearing no makeup, but I take great pride in the fact that my heartbreakingly large and tragically misshapen head is, indeed, perfect as well. Perhaps they are looking at me in envy.

I survey the place quickly and determine that there is nothing on sale for less than twenty bucks. Nothing I'd want, anyway. This, I think, is how they get you. They lure you in with a $10 gift certificate (not coupon), knowing full well that there is nothing you can buy for ten measly dollars, but once you're in the store, you'll feel compelled to buy something, which you would surely never have bought if you hadn't gotten the goddamn gift certificate to begin with.

After the bitterness of having been duped subsides, I zero in on some impressive glass jars containing salt rubs. I have used a version of this stuff before -- it's basically big honkin' granules of salt (or sometimes sugar, but then, inexplicably, it's called a sugar rub) swimming in happy moisturizing oil. You rub it on in the shower, you rinse it off, and then you can't stop touching yourself. This is good for those days when you have recently been dumped, because, though you are the only one around who needs to be enticed to feel you up, if you're anything like me, sometimes you still need to be enticed.

So I'm lookin' at the salt rubs, and I am curious as to how they smell. I look for a sample jar, as this is the sort of place that has samples, but I don't see any. The salesgirls (I use this term with a tone of derision, but only because they were so bloody snotty to me. I do not mean to insult all retail workers. But, y'know, if the snot fits…) are looking at me like I have the plague, and are helping other, cuter customers. I am quite happy with this situation, and decide to open a -- gasp! -- non-sample jar so I can smell it. I'm not gonna eat it, or scoop it into my ears, or spit in it, I'm just going to smell it. I thought this was obvious, as I merely opened the jar a tiny bit and held it near my nose. No sooner did I do this, though, that one of the sales whores swooped down on me and snapped, "We have samples for that!" and grabbed the jar away from me. "I don't see any samples," I snapped back, and kicked her in the shin, only without the kicking her in the shin part. "They're over there," she said, waving her bottomfeeding sales twit arm over to a "sample station," which was far, far away from where I was standing. I smudged her lipstick with my fist and went over to the freakin' sample station.

At the sample station, there were several open jars of salt rub with little plastic scoops in them. A sign helpfully instructed me to stir up the salt and oil before use, as sometimes the salt and oil separates, and nobody wants that. So, I stirred up the salt and oil, and then extracted a small lump of the mixture to bring up to my nose to smell.

Again, a stylish sales brain donor suddenly appeared and chastised me. "Please don't stick your fingers in the rub. That's what the scoops are for." "Look, I just want to smell the damn thing. I'm not trying to steal anything. I promise." She glared at me, as I clearly Did Not Get It. "It's for sanitary purposes." She continued to stand there and monitor me as I dutifully scooped the crap out with the designated crap scooper and smelled it. Shockingly, I decided I didn't want to buy it. I'm sure this decision had nothing to do with the rude and condescending attitude with which I was met. It wasn't that I didn't understand their points, but, well, if the samples aren't near where the actual products are, that's a problem with the store, not with me. And if there is no sign telling you not to sample the samples with your hands, well then, I'm gonna damn well sample the samples with my hands. It's my god-given right as a biped with opposable thumbs.

A couple days later, I still had the gift certificate, along with some painfully dry skin. I decided to suck it up and go back to the scene of the crime. Well, sort of. I went to the Origins on the Upper West Side, where it seemed the people were much nicer. That may have just been an illusion, though, seeing as I didn't try to smell or sample anything. God knows what havok would've been wreaked if I had. Instead, I made a beeline for the salt rubs, grabbed a jar, and presented the salesgirl with my coupon (doh! Gift certificate). Even with the discount, my total came to twenty dollars and change.

But it was worth it [she said, only typing with one hand].

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