Miss Xmas!

A Christmas Outfit...for reals

About which, more later. In the meantime, read "A Dangerous Lag In the Holiday".

Later. The above is what you get if you use Google Images, searching for "women's Christmas outfits". Actually, what you get is babes in Santa-slut outfits gently flicking a whip, round-faced mommies in Mrs. Claus red flannel nightgowns and ruffly mobcaps, and this one. Dress? Housecoat? Fiercely nuts? You decide. I love the notion of a hard-charging Christmas mom stumping into the family Christmas morning on her big square gift-wrapped feet. Even better, I like to think of her in the kitchen, whipping up her special Holiday Waffle Surprise while dressed as a tree. But this post isn't about beating up people who have delusions of Christmas.

Or maybe it is.

When your own Writer to the Stars was just a young twinkler, she took a job at one of the big DC tony department stores at the start of The Holiday, that is to say, before Hallowe'en. Here I'll segue off into a chunk of one of my short stories, since it sums up what the job entailed:

When you were at your most naive and, you hope, your stupidest, you took a job as Miss Christmas in a DC department store. You weren't the only one. There were swarms of Miss Christmases, a few as young and dumb as you were, a few who were young but hard-eyed, and a few who were young but already exuded a slutty passivity. Being Miss Christmas called for all of you to dress like a package: to hide your torsos in a brightly wrapped box, to wear red tights and high heels, to tie bows and gift cards around your necks and to top your heads with fake fuzzy poinsettias.

By October, the store had launched a flotilla of Miss Christmases throughout the store. Whenever a man appeared (and you were ordered only to wait on men), you were to clop over to him rustling seductively in your box, and announce, "I'm your Miss Christmas! May I help you with your Christmas shopping?" No matter how vile the response, you were supposed to whisk him through one expensive department after another, cajoling him into spending, spending, spending. Each Miss Christmas had to make $200 a day, which meant, in 1964 dollars, a lot of men.

Your own station was by the E Street door, where timed squirts of Elizabeth Arden's Blue Grass spattered over you at three minute intervals. Somehow, reeking like a chorus boy, your box becoming more battered by the week, your poinsettia more frowzy, you managed to live through three exhausting months as Miss Christmas. Out of the gray, anonymous hordes, you still recall helping Avril Harriman, the entire cotton lobby, and a whooping drunken sailor. After work, in The Blue Mirror Bar, drinking whiskey sours, playing Pretty Woman over and over on the jukebox, you sat collapsed in a tufted booth, feeling assailed, dented, much worse for wear.

You gave up your cherished dream of being a high-priced call girl or, for that matter, any other occupation involving high heels.

Excerpt from: What A Job Will Do

Yeah. Retail. It sucked.

Silver bells...

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.