Contrary to my DNA and my chromosomal structure, I absolutely hate to shop. The idea of spending even fifteen minutes of my life in a mall causes me to break out in hives, a cold sweat, a hot sweat; I’ll sneeze, I’ll cough, or I’ll even throw a tantrum if the aforementioned behaviors fail to foil the shopping trip. I like going to the grocery store, because I like to cook. And there’s nothing better than a trip to a hardware store, especially if it features a healthy garden supply department. But general “shopping”, as in, “Let’s all of us girls get together and go shopping! Then we can go to lunch!” is the most detestable of all activities. I would rather stick needles in my eyes. Or have a pap smear.
Now that I have made my point about how much I loathe shopping, let me tell you why. It may be because my mum (if you’re from western PA, you have a mum) would drag my sister and me shopping every single Saturday between September and May (summer Saturdays were spent at the beach, and that’s another blog altogether). Not only would we shop on Saturdays, we would shop on Monday nights, because apparently, that was Susan’s best time to find a bargain? Whatever she wanted on Saturday but ran out of money for was on sale Monday night? I don’t know. I do know that even if the merchandise shopped for were meant for Becky and me, I couldn’t have cared less. Most of the time it was Mum trying on clothes and Becky and me trying to amuse ourselves by hiding among the racks of Ship and Shore sportswear or over in lingerie trying on huge bras over our little bitty…bodies.
My mum’s favorite store “in town”—that town being Meadville—was Trask’s, which soon morphed into Carlisle’s. I believe I have correctly placed the apostrophes in the proper places, for each of these department stores were probably first owned by someone named Trask or Carlisle, who knows or cares. What I do know is that my mum spent more time and money in Trask’s/Carlisle’s in her short life as a wife and mum than she ever did in a grocery store or hardware store. Which is why the whole shopping gene must have skipped a generation.
My straight up hatred of shopping could stem, too, from the fact that I hate to part with money. I like having things, but the act of passing over a credit card, writing a check, or saying goodbye to the few dead presidents who might be lurking in my wallet has a rather unsettling effect upon me. I can’t help but think there might be something that I will really need and that I won’t be able to get because of a foolish decision to buy purple eye shadow or a new pair of sunglasses. So, yes, while I hate to shop, I am sometimes forced to.
Today, I needed a gift for a little friend who just made her First Communion. It was raining. I had a lot of work to do. And it was raining. The last thing I wanted to do was to go shopping (I think I’ve made that abundantly clear), and I knew that neither the grocery store nor the hardware store carried First Communion items, so I settled the matter by taking my business to a little boutique right in my neighborhood.
And here’s where my utter revulsion for the whole shopping experience left my very being like a rabid monkey stubbornly clinging to my back. I love this little boutique. Delaney’s–its namesake the proprietress’ daughter– has just about everything one could ever want in a repository of charm, and while that in itself is important (especially if you need something charming), it’s the atmosphere and the personnel that make the shopping excursion an altogether lovely experience. The best part of Shopping at Delaney’s is that there is always someone willing to find for me just what I need. Every time. It’s a bit pricey (well, for me, because, you know, I hate to part with cash), but the personal attention at Delaney’s goes well beyond what I have ever found anywhere else. And, no, I don’t mean Wal-Mart; I mean other boutique-y places where most of the time the personnel treat me like I’m Julia Roberts shopping on Rodeo Drive (did I mention that I often shop wearing the same clothes I wear while picking up dog poop in the yard?) except that I’m neither Julia Roberts, nor am I a prostitute.
No one paid me to write this. It’s just that when I can essentially walk from my house into this little neighborhood emporium of sweetness in under ten minutes, find the perfect gift and have it gift-bagged in just about the coolest little bag imaginable, well that, my friends, is noteworthy. And when a small business owner in your neighborhood brings a little bling into your life without your having to wash your hair, put on makeup, and schlep into “town”, that small business owner deserves a shout out. Love you, Delaney’s!