I stopped by Marshall's today to pick up a couple of chachka's for a friend's newly remodeled bathroom. The store wasn't crammed with customers, but it was crammed with stuff, Christmas stuff. Even in the middle of a very warm, no-coat, Dallas November day...warm enough that I popped a sweat just driving over...it's still Xmas Time in the City. Ting-a-ling.
As I glanced around at all the packaged-for-gift-giving glop, I imagined the way it's all going to look by the big day: shop-worn, creased, dingy, and missing some crucial parts. Yeah. You got it. I've worked Christmas retail, many, many times, and therein lies a tale, but not right now.
While I was standing in line to pay for my almond soap and body butter, several aisles over, a shopper suddenly went batshit. "I'VE LOST MY PURSE!" she hollered, while the rest of us stiffened, and glanced around, maybe wondering if it was somehow lying on the floor near us. "IT WAS RIGHT HERE AND NOW IT'S NOT!" the woman screamed. Several people got out of line and ran over to her. "I BET SOMEONE JUST GRABBED IT! JUST STOLE MY PURSE!" the woman yelled, waving her arms around. Two managers left the Customer Service booth and headed her way.
Meanwhile, the lady cop behind me said, "You need to hang it across you. Yeah. Like this lady here." She pointed to me, while several people craned to get a good look. I had a messenger bag slung crosswise over my chest. "Right here," said the lady cop, gesturing towards me. "At's what I'm talkin' about, baby." My body butter and soap were rung up and I swiped my card quickly. I was also the poster girl of purse-wearers at our Crime Stop meetings, always lavishly praised by the visiting beat cop, and asked to take a bow. I didn't feel like explaining I was wearing my bag the same way when I got mugged, my purse grabbed, my ass kicked and, ultimately, my hip replaced. At's what I'm talkin' about, baby. Yeah.
"I FOUND MY PURSE!" I heard the lost-purse lady hollering as I pushed out of Marshalls, "IT WAS RIGHT HERE ALL THE TIME!" But I didn't look back. I was busily remembering my father's branch of the family and the way they Christmas shopped. It was a branch of the family that was strange anyway, but, most intriguing to me, they operated on no set schedule or any rules at all, for that matter. As a child of six, I might be affably offered a cigarette by one or another adult as I passed their armchair. Dinner could be served at three in the afternoon, or ten at night. There were no bedtimes. If you woke three in the morning, there was always someone up, maybe thoughtfully frying a hamburger patty in the kitchen.
When the holidays arrived, my father's family took no notice. Nothing was decorated. No cards were sent. Then, at eight o'clock or so, on Christmas Eve, my grandfather would slap his knees decisively and stand up, signaling the rest of the family to get to their feet. Everyone would troop out to the garage for a trip to the drug store, which was generally the only thing still open back then. Dusty gift boxes of My Sin, including the soap-on-a-rope, were hastily purchased, as were ball-point pens, and a checkers board plus pieces. It was thought that office supplies made fine gifts too, so a stapler was added to the pile along with a gardening trowel. Nothing was ever gift wrapped. On Christmas Day, one wrinkly brown bag or other would be yours, along with the sales receipt.
I don't remember ever being disappointed; I thought it was a splendid way to get through the holidays without mess or stress. Actually, it was probably those ancient Ur-memories of drug-store gifts that allowed me to give up on Christmas completely.
And sooner or later, I had to give up on Christmas. It made me insane. But that's a whole other radio show.
As I glanced around at all the packaged-for-gift-giving glop, I imagined the way it's all going to look by the big day: shop-worn, creased, dingy, and missing some crucial parts. Yeah. You got it. I've worked Christmas retail, many, many times, and therein lies a tale, but not right now.
While I was standing in line to pay for my almond soap and body butter, several aisles over, a shopper suddenly went batshit. "I'VE LOST MY PURSE!" she hollered, while the rest of us stiffened, and glanced around, maybe wondering if it was somehow lying on the floor near us. "IT WAS RIGHT HERE AND NOW IT'S NOT!" the woman screamed. Several people got out of line and ran over to her. "I BET SOMEONE JUST GRABBED IT! JUST STOLE MY PURSE!" the woman yelled, waving her arms around. Two managers left the Customer Service booth and headed her way.
Meanwhile, the lady cop behind me said, "You need to hang it across you. Yeah. Like this lady here." She pointed to me, while several people craned to get a good look. I had a messenger bag slung crosswise over my chest. "Right here," said the lady cop, gesturing towards me. "At's what I'm talkin' about, baby." My body butter and soap were rung up and I swiped my card quickly. I was also the poster girl of purse-wearers at our Crime Stop meetings, always lavishly praised by the visiting beat cop, and asked to take a bow. I didn't feel like explaining I was wearing my bag the same way when I got mugged, my purse grabbed, my ass kicked and, ultimately, my hip replaced. At's what I'm talkin' about, baby. Yeah.
"I FOUND MY PURSE!" I heard the lost-purse lady hollering as I pushed out of Marshalls, "IT WAS RIGHT HERE ALL THE TIME!" But I didn't look back. I was busily remembering my father's branch of the family and the way they Christmas shopped. It was a branch of the family that was strange anyway, but, most intriguing to me, they operated on no set schedule or any rules at all, for that matter. As a child of six, I might be affably offered a cigarette by one or another adult as I passed their armchair. Dinner could be served at three in the afternoon, or ten at night. There were no bedtimes. If you woke three in the morning, there was always someone up, maybe thoughtfully frying a hamburger patty in the kitchen.
When the holidays arrived, my father's family took no notice. Nothing was decorated. No cards were sent. Then, at eight o'clock or so, on Christmas Eve, my grandfather would slap his knees decisively and stand up, signaling the rest of the family to get to their feet. Everyone would troop out to the garage for a trip to the drug store, which was generally the only thing still open back then. Dusty gift boxes of My Sin, including the soap-on-a-rope, were hastily purchased, as were ball-point pens, and a checkers board plus pieces. It was thought that office supplies made fine gifts too, so a stapler was added to the pile along with a gardening trowel. Nothing was ever gift wrapped. On Christmas Day, one wrinkly brown bag or other would be yours, along with the sales receipt.
I don't remember ever being disappointed; I thought it was a splendid way to get through the holidays without mess or stress. Actually, it was probably those ancient Ur-memories of drug-store gifts that allowed me to give up on Christmas completely.
And sooner or later, I had to give up on Christmas. It made me insane. But that's a whole other radio show.
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