Shopping words?

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Word junkie: the bull market in buzzwords, with boots on the ground

A down-to-earth walk through “curated experiences” in Sonoma County that translates hype into plain English

I took a notebook and a budget and went shopping. Goal: see how much reality you can still buy between Petaluma and Healdsburg when every sign promises a “curated experience.”

First stop: a mercantile in Petaluma where everything was “curated.” I asked what that meant. “Every piece tells a story,” the clerk said. Translation: someone deleted the ugly ones. I ordered “elevated toast,” which arrived on a cutting board the size of a doormat. Elevated, in practice: taller prices, shorter portions. Still tasty. Just… tall.

Down the block, “bespoke ceramics.” The potter was friendly and honest. “You can pick white, off-white, or eggshell.” Bespoke, translated: pick A, B, or C. I bought a mug because it fit my hand, not because it whispered in a British accent.

Santa Rosa hosted a “community pop-up”: tents, fairy lights, a DJ leaning into brunch. A bar poured “zero-proof cocktails crafted by our mixology collective.” Translation: fancy juice. Two booths over, a “collab drop” of hats—“limited edition” (until it isn’t). Scarcity theater sells; no judgment. Just say so.

Healdsburg turned up the gloss. A tasting room offered an “intentional flight” of “hyper-seasonal micro-lots,” with “heritage clones” and “regenerative practices.” I like wine and I respect farmers, so I asked for numbers: cover crops, water use, pay rates. The host actually answered. A win. Still, “regenerative” often reads like sustainable with a gym membership. Better copy: “We pay pickers on time.”

On the plaza in the City of Sonoma, an “experience center” turned out to be a store with a very nice couch. Staff invited me to “linger in our ecosystem,” meaning the headphones work best if you buy everything else in the line. Platform, decoded: a place where transactions happen—plus an account you didn’t want to create.

Sebastopol’s farmers market reset the mood. One stall offered “artisanal, small-batch, heritage grain” bread. I asked, “What’s heritage to you?” The baker didn’t reach for adjectives. He sliced a heel from a fresh loaf. Flour in the air, crust still singing—that said more than the chalkboard.

Another tent sold “clean” skin care. The owner admitted “natural” is a soft word and handed me an ingredient list you could read without a Ph.D. That’s the move. Put the label in my hand and let me decide.

Evening brought a warehouse “experience” in industrial Santa Rosa. A friend promised they were “elevating the conversation” around coffee. The emcee praised “our community” and “storytelling.” In the notebook: community equals customers we email; storytelling equals marketing that cries. Then they said they pay producers within 15 days instead of 90. The room clapped. That’s not branding; that’s policy—and it tastes better than any tagline.

Driving home, I tried to name the feeling behind all the fancy words. Fear, mostly. Plain words are risky because they can be checked. “We bake bread.” “We fix bikes.” “We ship in two days.” “We pay a living wage.” Buzzwords keep things foggy. Verbs land.

I’m not anti-poetry. I like a hand-lettered sign and a good origin story. But if you’re selling me soap, tell me what’s in it and what isn’t. If you’re selling me wine, tell me who picked the grapes and what they were paid. If you’re selling me headphones, tell me they won’t spy on me. Call it a vibe if you want—but give me a receipt I can read.

Here’s my modest proposal for shops across Sonoma County: fewer adjectives, more numbers; fewer vibes, more verbs. Keep the couch if it’s for resting, not harvesting emails. Keep the fairy lights if they help you see the price tag.

If you must promise an “experience,” make it this: a bakery shelf with two words on a card—“still warm.” No italics. The clerk smiles, the register rings, and the only story told is the one you eat.