Picture this: It’s a typical winter day in Boston, 12 feet of snow on the ground, wind chill 20 below zero and most Harvard students in shorts and a t-shirt. On occasions like these, I like to avoid those dumbasses and head to the Big K on my lunch break to buy some girly products that I don’t need. Today my purchases include (but are not limited to) a new welcome mat for the front door and beauty supplies in funky packaging. You know the type: you don’t care what they do, they just look cool in your bathroom, and someday if you get bored you might actually venture to find out what you bought, use it once and have an itchy rash for ten days in unmentionable places. That’s really never happened to me… but I heard it happened to my friend’s sister’s boyfriend's cousin who was into that sort of thing.

Anyway, as I peruse the aisles checkin’ out the sales and looking at all the pretty wrappings (ahhh, pretttty wrappppings…..), I realize that I still haven’t secured my new welcome mat. So, I set off toward the land of the "Martha Stewart Collection." I heard there is something for everyone, but I had actually never been there before.

I felt like a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by televisions with Martha in her khakis, demonstrating how to fold a towel in such a way that would make your family love you more. Suddenly the colors turned to harsh pastels and grotesque floral prints in 30 different shades of green that all supposedly coordinate with a yellow throw rug. I was momentarily mesmerized by the flowing colors and the rows upon rows of gleaming toiletries that all seemed to eerily match, when reality stepped back into the picture. The TV's were starting to close in on me, forcing me to choose my solid pattern and buy all of the coordinating accessories in stripes and geometrical shapes. I felt short of breath from the onslaught of claustrophobia caused by the many colored towels displayed too closely together. I knew it was time to get out of there.

I turned to hurry back down the aisle towards freedom, but stopped in my tracks as a blubbering five-year-old sat in the middle of the aisle, blocking my path with an assortment of Pokemon figurines apparently at war with each other. With the ignorant mother comparing two towels of the exact same color, while her child held the aisle captive, I had no choice but to venture deeper into Kitchen Coordinates in order to free myself from the bonds of Bathroom Styles. I zigged, I zagged, I contemplated going back and squishing the child and the toys with my shoe for a brief but fleeting moment, but couldn’t turn back now. I could smell the freedom just around the corner, or maybe it was the Tidy Bowl. The pressure was mounting. I had to get out of there. Dining Room Designs loomed ahead in the distance just beyond the floor mats. Wait! Floor mats?? That’s what I was looking for! Well, I guess I could stop for a moment here and check them out….hmmm….yeah, that one’s nice, and that shade of blue isn’t that annoying….wait, 30 bucks?? You want me to pay 30 friggin’ bucks for a crappy little welcome mat? WHAT A RIP-OFF!!! It doesn’t even say "Welcome" on it! Who the hell do you think you are, Martha Stewart? That mat better be lined in gold and be prepared to kiss my ass on a daily basis before I spend 30 bucks on it! I had to walk into designer hell to find a damn welcome mat and be accosted with colors not found ANYWHERE in nature, and televisions, and screaming children, and by the time I find what I’m looking for, enduring a fate worse than death, you want to charge me 30 bucks for it??? HEEEELLLL no. I’ll say it again. HEEEELLLL no.

Now that I’ve boycotted Martha Stewart products (bring it on you overly-coordinated hussy!) and feeling a renewed sense of self, I set off to find the real floor mats, leaving her demented color schemes behind. You know, the $3.99 dealies. Yeah, that’s what I want. No fussing about line and texture here! Can I stamp my snowy shoes on the damn thing? That’s all I ask.

As I wander the aisles searching for my precious non-Martha Stewart floor mat, my frustration level seems to be dramatically increasing as aisle after aisle produces nothing of interest to me. No floor mats to be seen, and always off in the distance I can faintly hear Martha’s overly-comforting voice explaining napkin maintenance to an imaginary audience.

Further and further into the depths of the store I go, and before I know it, I’m in Car Accessories, eye to eye with a Tweety Bird air freshener. I’m lost. It’s hopeless. Screw it. I don’t need the damn floor mat that bad….but did you know that they make colorful little incense bags for your car now? I never knew that! They’re really cute and come in all sorts of nice fragrances, and not just "pine" and "new car smell." I need one. Ok, I really don’t because they don’t make an air freshener strong enough to kill the stench in my car, but it’s only $1.99. I’ll splurge.

I make my way to the check-out line, bypassing "Stewartville," just in time for the Great Kmart rush. Yes, it seems that once a year everyone in the Boston area drops whatever they’re doing to invade the local Kmart at exactly 12:47. And I’m there to witness it. Fabulous. Apparently I missed the blue-light special of the century.

And then, standing in line, quietly thinking the nightmare is over, I pick up The Enquirer to calm myself and read about why Calista Flockhart is having an alien’s baby. It’s a good article, but instead of finishing it in peace and being among the few to see the first sonogram, I am jolted back to reality by what sounds like a troll yelling very close to my ear. Have you ever stood behind someone who insists that their box of Depends Undergarments costs 50 cents less than what it scanned as? And as a result they’ve alerted every member of the sales team to scour the aisles to see where the customer could have possibly found that price, and nine times out of ten, the customer is wrong? Yeah, well, I’m familiar with it, too. I tried to give the lady a friggin’ buck so that she could make a nice little profit and I could get the hell out of the store, but to no avail. She said she was "proving a point". Yeah lady. The point is, you’re a cheap old wind-bag losing control over major bodily functions who feels righteous enough to stop the flow of the economy until you’re vindicated from your 50 cent rip-off. My heart’s bleedin for ya. Bitter? Do you think I’m bitter? Well, hell yeah I’m bitter! It’s my job! I take pride in it, and I hope that on some subconscious level you would feel the same way as I do in a similar situation, but if not, maybe Martha Stewart has an opening in her Ugly Coordinates Department. I’ll put in a good word for ya.

By no means is Martha Stewart’s Collection terrible, except for the hand towels. They’re really bad. LostBrain.com takes no responsibility for this piece, because frankly, they just don’t care.

-Carrie St. Jacques, Motivational Speaker