It’s December and we have come full circle again. The pumpkins on my porch have been replaced with poinsettias. My favorite Thanksgiving traditions are watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, the National Dog Show, and giving my family the bird.
Every year my English spouse asks, “Are we going to have a turkey?” Turkey day is my tradition, not his. It was his people who booted the Puritans out of England.
Following the grand feast The Brit and our grandson, The Briteen, sprawl for the weekend and watch soccer, arising only to eat or visit the loo.
While the boys lounge, I hit the Black Friday sales alone. This year The Briteen asked to come along, but he hates shopping for anything. Only days before I had asked him to help me grocery shop after school.
“I don’t want to go into the store,” he groused. “I’ll wait in the car.”
As I pulled into the parking lot he asked, “Would you get me something while you’re in there?”
I thought, “Is he kidding?”
“What,” I snapped.
“I want Hot Cheetos,” he said nonchalantly.
I replied most ‘chalantly,’ “Gee, I don’t know if she’s working today but I’ll ask.”
He burst out laughing. Then an elderly lady walked past our car, smiling and waving. “There she is now!” I pointed. The Briteen was still howling with laughter when I returned with the groceries.
His approach to shopping is flight or fight: get stuff and leave the store quickly or fight with Grandma while she keeps shopping. He dreads the words: “Hold my purse so I can try this on.”
He and The Brit are hunters. I am a gatherer. I select merchandise, produce, and deli meats by comparing and measuring their worth. Whereas my men think: “Shop, shoes, VISA. Shoes black. Black good. Shoes fit good. Buy shoes now. Leave store fast to watch game.”
So when The Briteen asked to go shopping with me I knew he had an agenda, which was revealed when he asked, “Are you going to the Pismo Outlets?” Ah HAH!
“Why do you ask, Lovey?” I cooed.
“I need some shoes. Can we go to Vans?” Ever notice how teenagers say “need?” The Brit and I always taught our boy the difference between “want” and “need,” but puberty somehow erased those lessons from his memory.
Once inside he promptly produced a pair of white Vans, priced at $65. “I need these, Grandma.”
I replied, “Your shoe shopping budget is $40. What you ‘need’ is 25 more bucks.”
After a litany of promises to do extra chores I relented, commenting, “You do know what those white shoes will look like in a week, right?”
Boy, was I wrong. He tricked me into buying a protective spray, and those Vans are still gleaming white.
Holiday shopping last year was memorable. My husband had several hospital stays, an angiogram, and a cardiac stent. Visiting family was out of the question, as was attending holiday events. So I was determined to make our home cozy and cheery. Nothing was going to diminish my Christmas spirit.
I wore my ugly Christmas sweaters with pride, bought reindeer antlers for our car, and shopped online so I could be home with my hubby. But one thing was missing—his favorite candy. The Brit loves those old-fashioned, hard, ribbon candies.
I was dismayed to discover that they were sold out everywhere. The Briteen said, “I’ll bet Walmart has some.” O holy night, no, not Helmart on Christmas Eve! I reluctantly called and was transferred to extension 666 for customer surliness.
“Yeah, we have a case and a half but they’re going fast,” the clerk answered sounding very annoyed by my request.
“Can you hold some for me?” I asked sweetly
“No,” was the short and sweet reply.
The Briteen insisted on playing Aloe Blacc singing “I’m the Man!” on his iPhone as we drove to the store.
“Yuck it up, kiddo,” I fumed. “I’m not going in alone. You’re coming with me!”
We arrived in the parking lot and I saw a spot open up right in front of the store—a Christmas miracle! I was just turning my wheels to park when some warty little troll in his convertible ‘troll-y’ zipped around from the wrong way and sharked my parking spot!
You could have knocked me down with a mistletoe sprig! “Hey!” I called out, “I was pulling into that spot!”
He shrugged and said, “Not quick enough!” Ooohhh, REALLY?
“You rude little putz!” I called, using a Yiddish word for male anatomy that my husband reserves for soccer referees who piss him off.
I got out of the car and realized that I had lost one of my reindeer antlers. Now I was really mad. The Briteen tried to calm me down, saying soothingly, “If people ask what happened to the other antler just tell them we don’t talk about that!”
We arrived at the candy aisle and there he was—the holiday parking troll. I couldn’t resist.
“WELL! We meet again, you rude putz!” I declared aloud.
People stared as he glanced nervously over his shoulder at me.
“Hey! I helped you get a better space when that other car pulled out right by the door,”
he squeaked.
“That was a handicapped spot, you rude putz, so NO! You didn’t help me. But hey! Nice of you to try justifying your rudeness,
you putz!”
The troll hurriedly skittered away, only to find me and my basilisk stare next to him in line. As he fled to his car I called out, “Run, Rudolph, run, you rude little putz!”
The Briteen beamed all the way to the car. He got inside, turned to me and, grinning ear to ear, declared, “I love the holidays!”
Ariel Waterman needs some Christmas spirit. Send Jameson Irish Whiskey and spare reindeer antlers via Arts Editor Joe Payne at jpayne@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Dec 8-15, 2016.
