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Charlene Joy

Let's go to Penney's! - Part Two

Last night I headed over to Penney's to acquire a pair of slacks. Totally not at all to check their new pricing strategy. Nah.

Other than a few bold orange squares hanging from the ceiling (I suppose to drive home their new motto of "fair and square" pricing) nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Tons of beige decor and happy salespeople.

The price tags were different though. The prices were... round. $25, $18, $20, etc. The items were divided in two categories: everyday price and best price. For those of us obsessed with sales, there is still the best price rack.

jcp did a good job of creating a buzz in my head. I had to check out the store my family has been shopping at for centuries. After watching the colorful non-Ellen ads that have aired, I'm sad to say that the changes they made aren't radical. Still beige, still my jcp. The price tags freak me out a bit, but I'm sure I'll get used to it. At least they still give you a 20% discount when you use their card.


Conclusion: Mixed feelings. Even though I know I'll be getting "the best deal" when buying a product, there is no longer a sense of satisfaction when you see the price go down from a $32 to an $18, because there is no $32 to begin with.

Let's go to Penney's!

After a month of allowing JC Penney's new IMC to sink in, I have realized it has not sunk in--at all. I keep forgetting I must stop referring to one of my favorite places by its archaic name. Get with it. It's jcp now... jcp... cool modern chic as demonstrated by lack of punctuation and capitalization... jcp.

Who wouldn't like to have Ellen DeGeneres as their spokesperson, while still maintaining their affiliation with Martha Stewart? I mean, who wouldn't want to have medium length hair and a pixie cut at the same time? What are you trying to do jcp? I am sure it's not me--it's you. I don't even know who you are anymore.

Also, what's with the lack of clearance racks and outrageous discounts? I must now learn how to cope with the concept that awesome prices are everyday prices. The absence of .99 at the end of prices makes me nervous. After decades (all two of them) of accepting the .99 as a NORMAL part of consumerist culture, now I have to adjust to this obscenity. No longer are the days where I could experience a sense of accomplishment for tracking the same sundress for 500 months, where I could savor my victory as I snatch said item with my quivering fingers, as my eyes scan stickers upon stickers of scratched-off prices on the tag, and finally obtain a 90% off discount.

Fellow Americans--the Mayans are right. I am convinced there is nothing left to live for.

What do you think? Yay or nay to JC Penney's (oops, jcp's) new look? Are you thrilled, confused, or (like me) utterly perturbed?

Poem #11 - Intermediate Poetry Writing

(November 30, 2010)

“Oombrella”

“What? What did you just say?”

Grandma's face froze, like I’d pranked her with a water-squirting flower.

“Someday, you’ll live in Amurca,

and they don’t take your sheet there.

That’s why you hafta learn pronounciation.”

Frustration had set in on her deep red cheeks, like hoops set on fire.

“Umbrella begins with the letter u,

but that don’t mean a thing.

I’m going to teach you a trick.”

Two hours of juggling new sounds, time to add another pin.

“I want you to take your hand,

make a little fist, and punch yourself

in the stomatch. Go on.”

I don’t question her wisdom anymore; I carried on with the performance.

“Say uh! That’s how you say umbrella.

Uh, uh, uhmbrella. Like a man,

hombre, hombre, hombrella.”

Why is English such a beech? Painfully deceptive--a fun house mirror.

Construction

(August 31, 2010)

After lunch, Mami brought my favorite sippy cup

out to the war-zoned backyard construction site.

She sidestepped threaded rods and stumbled along

to the cinder blocks where Papi and I would drink.

He’d say there was no better way to quench thirst

than sipping some 80 proof Superior Bacardi—

the ritualistic elixir that fuels our island life,

ever-present since my preschool days. I won’t lie,

sometimes I long for that stagnant stench of beer

and spiced rum that would cool us down, our team.

I remember how I thought of myself as Papi’s son,

and how bitter Mami wanted a daughter with smooth hands.

Getting banished from my “unladylike” playground,

my helpless cries fell deaf on Papi’s unseeing eyes:

I learned that treason came in different shades

of pink pointe shoes and sequined leotards.

Photographs show my sticky hair slicked back in a bun,

and my feet bound in satin ribbons, but I know

blotches of blush can’t hide the handyman’s helper.

Who knows who I’d see if Papi weren’t blind.