Re-Giftage

Here's a retread of a post from last year, about this time....Decembert 21, 2008, to be exact. It's about me and shopping...one of my least favorite activites. But I'll post it again because I'm lazy and that's how I roll...and because we're getting a new cable sevrice provider today and I don't know when i'll be able to get on-line to write something wonderful and magical, or irritating and annoying, so here's a little somethin'somethin' from the past:

Okay, so as I've said before, I don't wait until the last minute to do my Christmas shopping, I wait until the minute before the last minute to start.

That was today.

I give Carlos the lowdown that I have errands to run--errands being code for I'm buying your presents....I should be a spy I'm so good with codes--and that I'll be going alone. He asks where I'm going and I say, None of your business. He wants to know why I won't say and I tell him that if I said where I was going he might know what I was buying and that wasn't happening. I'm spy smart, I tell you; spy smart.

So the lip came out. He has the cutest pout.

I promised to take the cell phone with me and off I went. Now, I can't even say what stores I visited because prying Latino eyes, and all that. Suffice to say that I hit one store and found a couple of things he might like, and little something that he could give to me, even though he didn't know it. I can't wait for him to see my face when I open it!

I go stand in the line to pay. Now, I'm not one of those impatient shoppers; I know it's Christmas; I know they're busy. I don't mind waiting.

But this woman, all scarves and woolen accessories--mind you it's in the mid-sixties and sunny--is in front of me.

Foot tapping.

Huffing.

Puffing.

Harrumphing, is a better term. Yeah.

Harrumph! Craning her neck to see when it's her turn; rolling her eyes when someone at the counter pulls out a checkbook.

I thrive for this.

She's tapping, harrumphing, scarving, rolling, all over the place and finally turns to me to give me one of those, Can you believe it? looks. I smile back, and her face freezes; I would have thought it would melt under so many layers, but it actually froze.

How.Dare.I.Smile. How dare I be patient. It's Christmas for cryin'out loud and there are crowds and people and traffic and cars and lines. And checkbooks.

But I smile. She harrumphed again and turned away.

At the next store, I found another little somethin' somethin' for Carlos and back in line I went. Only this place makes you stand at the end of what looks to be a cattle chute. And then some Beefy Moron, and I use the word moron in the nicest possible way, directs you toward a particular register.

I get up to the front of the line, and he's lookin' at me, and lookin' at the registers, and lookin' back at me. Finally, he shouts Number 10, Number 10, sir! I swear I heard a bell ring and off I went down the chute, lookin'for Number 10.

There's a woman ahead of me at Number 10. She's buying a gift card. Now, I suppose some people like gift cards, and they do come in handy. But at this particular store, I think that buying a gift card is like saying I really don't care for you enough to spend more than five minutes shopping for you. Or it's the obligatory under-$15 gift card for the office gift exchange. Whatever. I am not a fan of the gift card. (side note: I got a gift card for my Dad, but only because the place that honors the card is in his town, and his town is 3,000 from mine.)

So she writes a check. I don't eye-roll, harrumph, or tap. I smile. She gives me that apologetic look that says she written checks in long lines all over town and almost come to fisticuffs over it. I smile back.

Then the cash register freezes. It won't accept her check. It won't print a receipt. It just won't. I'm still smiling; seriously, still smiling. The poor kid, Wendell is his name, is turning all sorts of red; sweat forms at his hairline and his eyes grow large, like the woman with the check is now holding a double-barrel shotgun instead of a Bic Clic. He's calling for help and no one is answering.

Ms. Miriam,, who took the place of Beefy Moron as line guard, is chatting with a friend. Finally, Check-Writer gets Ms. Miriam's attention and she tells Wendell how to fix it.

At which point, Check-writer turns to me and says, with one of those sweet Southern lady smiles, He doesn't even know how to cash a check!

To which I reply: It's not him, it's the computer.

From her: Well, he ought to know how to do it.

Do you? I say, with my Christmas smile.

Check-writer goes mute.

I smile more.

Happy shopping!