by Metten

December 5, 2007

Did I mention that I hate Christmas? Just because you can go to every store in the world over the weekend doesn’t mean you should. And the fact that a dead person isn’t able to take up a space in the checkout line and delay your trip to Kohl’s doesn’t give you the right to hit fat guys in the parking lot with your sport-utility. Season of giving - my ass.

Several people have been bitching lately about the trick they have set up at Best Buy (no, Mom, you weren’t bitching, I am talking about other people who aren’t you). If you live in the woods somewhere and they don’t have a Best Buy--what they do is set up a series of movie-theater-style barriers and direct the line back into the appliances department, because nobody buys appliances at Best Buy.

They finally let you near the registers when the high school sophomore that only works there so they can get a discount on Grand Theft Auto gives you the okay. A kid that can barely drive should not be given that kind of power. If you are that kid’s math teacher, don’t go to Best Buy. Actually, if you are a high school math teacher, don’t go anywhere – you’ve already ingested enough spit for one lifetime. Order everything online from another country.  

Anyway, the point is that when you walk in the door, it looks like the line for check out is short. In reality, if you are going to Best Buy, prepare yourself for an afternoon standing in line and staring at that refrigerator with the T.V. in the door.

As long as we’re talking about that fridge…Even if I could afford it, am I the only one who is horribly uncomfortable with the idea of plugging coaxial cable and a water line into the same appliance? I know it’s low voltage, but Jesus…

So every time I have to go and buy something, it turns into a complete cluster-fuck. First I end up having to park so far away that I avoid looking up at the light poles when I get out of the car for fear that I will see a sign marked “Arrowhead Lot X”. Then I have to try to run into the store with two kids in my arms without getting squished by a military vehicle with a leather interior and Clifford the Big Red Dog blasting on the DVD player.

The next hurdle is the fine example of classical conditioning that my daughter has developed over the past year. It would put Pavlov’s dogs to shame. The minute she sees the fluorescent lights of a department store, she loads her Huggies.

So I deal with that, actually do the shopping, wait in line for three hours, pay for the merchandise and then try to put jackets back on the little ones. The big kid refuses to let me put his jacket on so I put the little kid down so that I can wrassle the big kid. Then the little kid goes sprinting (a feature that I had no idea was available on the one-year-old model) toward the endcap of the nearest aisle. I put down the big kid and chase down the little kid. After I run down the little kid, I turn around to see that the big kid had spilled water all over his jacket (that I had only been able to get halfway on). It is at this point of the parenting experience that a sensible person gains the capacity to beat their children worse than that one lady in the gubment cheese aisle at Wal-Mart. But I didn’t beat anyone -

Like some sort of holiday angel, a very attractive young woman swooped down and picked up my little girl and held onto her as I wiped off and snapped up the boy’s jacket. I thanked the shit out of this lady and joked with her that she had saved my kids’ lives. Her act of kindness, for a full millisecond, had caused me to rethink my personal philosophy about Christmas and perhaps even my fellow man.

The millisecond ended when the attractive young woman told me “Merry Christmas” as she violently directed me to her donation box with her stupid young and attractive head. She was with some organization that was wrapping packages for donations. I stopped smiling at her, told her Merry Christmas, put down the boy and jammed a dollar into her stupid collection box. I fucking hate Christmas.

Love,

metten

be my myspace friend at myspace.com/metten0

      
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