Warning: Mad Beeper is Loose

My normally-pasty face flushed the kind of rich red that tomatoes want in a hot summer fashion. A buzzer sounded with nasty, tattle-tale glee.

The store worker rushed over to confront the issue. Soon a puzzled frown creased his brow, as logic set in. Wasn't I entering, not leaving? People didn't shoplift before they came into a store, did they?

And as he stood, lips trying to mold the right question, I explained. Explained the way I had at Kohls.

And at Target.

And at Barnes and Noble.

(It was a busy day.)

I explained that I am The Mad Beeper. And (regrettably) I cannot be stopped.

See, this is my accessory to disruption. Or rather, something in it is, since my mysterious Beeptasticness has followed me through two entirely separate handbags.

Oh, I have turned this particular handbag inside out like a frog in seventh grade biology. I have examined its guts. I now know its polyester and vinyl soul.

I have brought in an elite team of trained security tag sniffing animals. (Okay, my cat Alice, but she's very thorough.)

And as far as I can tell, there is no special sensor lurking as a part of this bag.

Which means, I have stowaway object, plotting my perpetual, so public embarrassment. I just haven't pinned down the perp yet.

I look accusingly at my lipstick, and it pouts at the injustice.

I eye the remote control to the gate of my office, but it remains unmoved.

I try to push my cell phone's buttons, in hopes of a confession, but it drops my signals.

Somewhere, within the satin blend lining of Kathy VanZeeland pastel snickers the source of my continued humiliation. And I will find it.

Oh, I will root it out.

Until then, I can only ask that my innocent appearance continue to serve me well... that any frisking be fleeting... and if not, that the security guards be mightily cute.

Doctor Who and the Retail Time Warp

Step through the threshold of department stores like Target or Wal-Mart and you find yourself transported to a time that is not your own.

When snow slicks the parking lot, frost glazes the windshields, and little kids turn into wobbling, wind-resistant cocoons with eyes-- inside these capsules of consumerism you will discover a land of bright bikinis... beach bags... charcoal grills and swizzle sticks.

Or in the steamy days of summer, when sweat runs in rivulets and the bra-straps of the populace get a good public airing-- inside the realm of retail, school supplies remind us darkly that freedom is fleeting... hairy sweaters smother standing displays... and, wait-- is that a faint jingle of sleigh bells we hear underlying the Muzak?

How is this possible?

Well, yes, of course you could say that it's corporate greed, plain and simple.

But do these manufacturing giants really believe that we will stand shivering in a changing room, swimsuit pressed against pasty-white, with the taste of Christmas fruitcake still lingering on our hips... er, lips?

Do they really believe we'll have an itch to shrug into that 100% wool sweater while the chlorine from Sandcastle Water Park still scents our skin?

I think it's proof of the existence of Doctor Who.

Yep. The way I see it, Target's mysterious seasonal shift forward is actually an unfortunate residue resulting from repeated alien invasion of the planet and resetting of the space-time continuum, to protect our human minds!...

Months of oppression under evil extra-terrestrial overlords!...

And the good Doctor, putting things right for all of us and wiping our minds clean of the terrors once more.

Ever feel like you've been working at the same stupid stuff for months, even though you know it couldn't possibly be that long?

Ever feel like you're life's at a complete stand-still, and you're going nowhere, and you don't know where your motivation went?

Well, there you go! That's the effects of Repeated Earthling Enslavement and Time-Foolery!

And while the Doctor is clearly very, very good at what he does... Unfortunately, he just hasn't figured out how to set shop inventory back to the correct season.

It's truly the only decent theory that explains why stores would believe I'd be interested in snow boots and a shovel for the Fourth of July.

Still unconvinced? Well, just you walk around your favorite department store this weekend, and see if there isn't something to this.

Resistance is futile, you know. Time for a nice big cup of hot cocoa. And pass me that gingerbread man, would you?

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Today's questions: What's the most surprising off-season item you spotted in stores? And have you ever bought something totally off-season for later?

Also-- is it me, or is Christmas now starting somewhere in September? Didn't it used to be after Thanksgiving?

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Survey Says: "No Sale, Skippy!"

I slipped past one of them, but the second one looked more determined. He was scanning the crowd with sharp black eyes.

I braced myself, letting the front length of my hair slip over my face as I walked past, in a covert attempt to shield. Like this ever worked for Slash of Guns n' Roses or that kid in The Incredibles... And it didn't work for me, either. The young man moved forward and stepped straight into my path.

"Ma'am, we're doing a survey--"

"I'm sorry. No time," I said, dodging him and sprinting to the escalator like my tennies had just burst into flame.

I rue the day I ever became a target for the Mall Survey Jockeys.

Oh, I used to make it past them. Me and my bag from Hot Topic or Spencers or Rue 21. I used to see them look right through me in order to pounce on some poor soccer mom, who had a moment without Munchkins at her feet and thought she'd pop into the mall for a rare half-hour of kid-free shopping bliss.

But now, I fool absolutely nobody. I've made it into the soccer mom demographic, I guess, in spite of the lack of progeny, cleats or a mini-van. And my opinions matter.

Of course, they don't. I mean, not really. I'd be bound to skew their whole study. If they're hoping to get an insight into the shopping habits of the typical thirty-something American female, well, I'm not out looking for a new pair of Nikes for little Timmy so he isn't socially ostracized and scarred for life...

And I'm not on a quest for a particular pair of $4,000 shoes because Sarah Michelle Jessica Gellpark wore them once on Sex and the Slayer.

I'm at the mall primarily to pick up those one or two things that can't be had from the second-hand CD store, the thrift store or Half-Price Books. You know: used and cheap. Which is sorta how I feel when I see people closing in on me to extract product preferences from my brain.

I'd actually be interested to know the percentage of folks who do go to the mall and think, "Hey, I was here trying to get a few errands done, but suddenly I'm in the mood to have an 18-year-old previously unknown to me take my opinions and choices down to be shared with an unnamed marketing group. I've got a couple of hours to spare."

Doesn't this mean that the only people they get to do these surveys are folks who are unemployed or have nowhere to be at any set time?

And, really, they're going about it the wrong way, anyway. They could round up so many more of us if there were just a trapdoor at the foot of the escalator. Sure, they'd net some folks outside of their demographics...

They'd have to throw those ones back.

But all in all, they'd be more likely to get a cross-section of folks instead of just the trusting Jane American who doesn't think much about disappearing for an undetermined length of time in an undisclosed location for purposes no one quite makes clear.

So I think the key to this is for me to look less approachable at the mall. No more smiling for me. No more laughing with my shopping buddies. Severe, frightening, and likely to cut them... that's what I need to go for.

Hm. This means I'll have to hit the mall; I'll need a few accessories.

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