It’s the most wonderful time of the year. At least, that’s what that seasonal holiday song would have you believe. Yes folks, another year has come to its inevitable end—which means getting ready for the holidays. Be it Hanukkah or Christmas, or in my case both, we all have shopping to do, followed by wrapping, baking, and decorating.
My mother is a mastermind at these activities. She starts shopping in June and has everything done by September. Right after Halloween she starts baking and freezing. By Turkey Day she’s done and even has most of her Thanksgiving dinner ready for re-heating in the fridge or freezer. The day before she puts up the Christmas tree, sets the table for the big dinner the next day, and sits back and gloats on the phone from her retirement headquarters in Sun City, Ariz., (a town I refer to as God’s Little Waiting Room).
“Whacha doin’?” she croons sweetly into the phone Thanksgiving morning, knowing full well that I am frantically trying to thaw a frozen, 23-pound bird with a blowdryer.
Mom has always had the capacity for knowing the worst times to phone. I swear she has had a secret sensor of some kind installed on our toilet seats that alerts her the moment I am comfortably settled in for business.
My mother has years of experience preparing for the holidays. But she’s never worked alone. Oh no, Mom has her own special strategies and minions. Back in the day, she took full advantage of ordering from catalogs that came in the mail from Sears, Aldens, and Spiegel. I used to love perusing them and clearly delineating my desires with bright-colored crayon circles on pages with turned down corners.
Now Mom fills her cart online at Amazon while sipping an unpretentious merlot in front of the fireplace. But there was a time between those mail order catalogs and online shopping when, come Black Friday, she exploited the skills of her minion, a hapless first-born daughter who she held under the irresistible spell of Catholic Mom Guilt. The 1980s—those were the Dark Ages indeed!
There’s a good reason why they were so dark and why the Friday after Thanksgiving was named black. It was because sales started at 4 a.m. Every Thanksgiving dinner ended the same way. Over a helping of her fabulous mincemeat pie—my favorite—she would begin: “Is it good? I made it from scratch. Take the rest home with you, Sweetheart!”
I would be immediately on my guard. She wanted something and we both knew it. With six young granddaughters who wanted the latest toy of the holiday season, she was plotting her next move.
“Remember when you were little and we lived in Spokane,” she would intone. “I took you to see the Disney movie Sleeping Beauty even though it was cold and snowing out because you wanted so badly to see it. We had to wait in line forever outside the Fox Theater in the bitter cold, and I made sure you were bundled up to stay warm just so you could see that stupid movie. Remember?”
Here it comes. The ugly spectre of guilt has entered the room. “What is it you want, Mom?”
“Oh, just a little shopping trip to the mall half-a-mile away,” she says soothingly.
“Do you expect me to walk?” I scoff.
“No, my spawn. I expect you to drive!” She points to her car keys and dictates, “The girls each want a Cabbage Patch doll and I need time to mail them. I’ll wake you at 3 a.m.!”
Sure enough, the crack of dark found me standing outside the local Target, my face pressed against the cold hard glass doors. This was because every mother, aunt, and grandma in Phoenix was behind, shoving me up against the building. When the doors finally opened we were like cows stampeding through a chute. What I thought was mooing were cries of “Mooove it!”
Three ugly-assed Cabbage Patch Kids and several crushed toes later found me dashing to Macy’s, which had the class to wait until 5 a.m. to open. I made my way to the front by pretending to desperately need a bathroom just as the doors flew open.
Somehow I managed to outrun the crowd to the toy department. I made the mistake of glancing over my shoulder and was horrified to see some mean-looking, desperate people right behind me. It was like being chased by the cast of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre!
I dodged left and feinted right to just behind the Cabbage Patch display where I captured three more of those butt-ugly dolls. People mobbed the neatly stacked boxes, grasping and gasping, and no wonder. With all those coffee-fueled bodies dogpiling on the display it was beginning to smell like a cabbage patch!
A couple of little grannies, who I was certain had done hard time, tried to pry my hard-won prizes out of my hands, but I held fast and beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the cash register.
As I carted my loot to the car, I was bombarded in the parking lot with tempting offers to sell my Cabbage Patch Kids for a profit. But it was more than my life was worth to deny She Who Is to Be Obeyed her bounty.
I made it back to Mom’s headquarters with a few more crushed toes, a couple of bruised ribs, and a helluva headache. I was numb, exhausted, and craved a shower and a cigarette—and I have never smoked!
It was still dark and, as I entered the living room I heard a soft, “Well?” Mom was seated at the dining table, sipping coffee, our small white poodle Jacques curled up in her lap.
“Mission accomplished. There are six of those stupid things in the trunk of your car,” I proudly stated.
“And … ?” she purred softly.
“And I’ll bring them in and wrap them for you after I take a pause for the cause.” I’d consumed a lot of coffee that morning, too.
“And then … ?” she insisted.
“And then I’ll drive them to the post office and mail them for you, oh wondrous M.,” I acquiesced.
“Thank you, Sweetheart! You are such a wonderful daughter,” Mom smiled. But as I left the room I could swear that she turned in her chair, stroked that small, white dog, and with a laugh softly, uttered, “EX-cellent!”
Ariel Waterman still likes to shop old school. Send Fingerhut catalogs via her editor Shelly Cone at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Nov 12-19, 2015.