In which bitches nearly are cut
Oh my sweet God have mercy. I only just now got my first solid food of the day, as a late lunch/early dinner. I spent the entire day running around various malls and shopping centers desperately trying to fulfill five different Christmas Gift Objectives, and only solved two. If you were at my favorite bookstore--the two-story Books-a-Million at Brookwood Mall--and you saw a girl with a black sweater hoodie and a profound expression of D:< the entire time she was there, that was me. I just shambled around in shopper haplessness for forty-five minutes. Finally, I ended up back at the same store late this afternoon--I decided to go back and get two books I'd put back. I knew exactly where they were: a table about fifteen feet from the register. I came in through the ground-floor entrance, walked straight to the table, picked up the books, and walked straight back over to the register to get in line behind one woman, who was already mid-transaction. I was going to meet my mother, who was searching for a parking space, upstairs as soon as I was done. Given that it was the simplest errand ever, I expected to be done before she finished scouring the parking deck.
Twenty minutes later, she texts to ask where I am.
Twenty actual, literal minutes later, I am still standing behind that one woman. I AM STILL STANDING BEHIND THAT ONE WOMAN. All I know is that it involves $200 worth of gift cards and the inability to buy them or pay with them or FUCK, I DON'T EVEN KNOW with them in a single transaction and my blood sugar bottoming out. Everyone else was smart enough to get in line at the other two registers (and people behind me are moving to those lines as the years and years of waiting drag on), so there was no point in me moving--like a gambler on his last five bucks, I had already invested too much to walk away from the table now. Surely, SURELY TO GOD, this woman's transaction would be completed soon. SURELY.
After every single other customer had been rung up, the guy at the middle register waved me over. I had spent twenty minutes staring at Twilight bookmarks on the counter because it was either them or a letter opener with an enameled butterfly on the table to my left, and I went with the Twilight bookmarks because every time I imagined shanking the woman in front of me with the letter opener, this delicious itch would start to overtake my palms and I decided that I would rather not go to prison. Chagrined Bookmark Edward understood my pain, y'all. So did the Tonner Edward in the plastic box for his protection on the Customer Service desk fifteen feet away; I flashed back to my sister's (now ex) boyfriend the BAM buyer ordering 500 of them for the chain at NYCC on my recommendation. And that was one of them. And it, too, had shellacked Corythosaurus hair. I felt very sorry for all of us. I was also starting to hallucinate a little bit, because I was thinking that it was a bit strange that the floor was turning into fluffy clouds, but they would probably feel very nice if I lay down and curled up in them. Fortunately, I was able to pull my shit together long enough to successfully operate the credit card machine. I even had a very pleasant conversation about [movie that will be made of certain book I was buying]. Then I restrained myself from throwing elbows into the small crowd of girls surrounding the two Twilight merchandise tables upstairs--I am not exaggerating any of that. It was an actual logjam. I was entering the Berserker Rage phase of all-day food deprivation and was prepared to pick up an Edward-faced backpack and start bushwhacking, except that a twelve-year-old saw my face and pushed her mother out of the way--and stormed off to the food court.
As far as I know, the woman in front of me is still at that register with her $200 worth of gift cards.
I will say that I checked my box on the way home, and there was a package full of Green and Black's chocolate but I have no idea who it was from. All I know is that emergency application became necessary. So thank you, from the bottom of the hearts of the people I did not kill because chocolate intervened.
By the way, remember this story?
Meanwhile, on the way home from our last excursion of the day, we dropped by my grandmother's to bring her some more ornaments. On the way out, I stopped to play with a--I don't know, I guess you'd call it a banner? It kind of looks like a long flat bell pull? I don't know. She has it hanging on her front door, and it's this tan-colored strip of fabric with little decorated felt Christmas trees, edged with shiny gold rickrack. "I loved this when I was a kid," I told her, shaking it a little so the bells would jingle. "Ruth made that," my grandmother said warmly. "She really liked arts and crafts. She made all of this herself, every bit of it. Even the tassels. She sewed everything on it there--the sequins, the little ornaments, she even put the pearls on the trees. She's dead now."
I managed not to crack up until I got to the car. My mother couldn't understand why I was doubled up in the passenger seat crying with laughter. I'm not sure I understand it myself.
This year, I got pictures of it:
And now, I flop.
P.S. I still want a foot massage really, really badly.
( Zomg e-book! The Annotated Movies in Fifteen Minutes: Wizards!)
Twenty minutes later, she texts to ask where I am.
Twenty actual, literal minutes later, I am still standing behind that one woman. I AM STILL STANDING BEHIND THAT ONE WOMAN. All I know is that it involves $200 worth of gift cards and the inability to buy them or pay with them or FUCK, I DON'T EVEN KNOW with them in a single transaction and my blood sugar bottoming out. Everyone else was smart enough to get in line at the other two registers (and people behind me are moving to those lines as the years and years of waiting drag on), so there was no point in me moving--like a gambler on his last five bucks, I had already invested too much to walk away from the table now. Surely, SURELY TO GOD, this woman's transaction would be completed soon. SURELY.
After every single other customer had been rung up, the guy at the middle register waved me over. I had spent twenty minutes staring at Twilight bookmarks on the counter because it was either them or a letter opener with an enameled butterfly on the table to my left, and I went with the Twilight bookmarks because every time I imagined shanking the woman in front of me with the letter opener, this delicious itch would start to overtake my palms and I decided that I would rather not go to prison. Chagrined Bookmark Edward understood my pain, y'all. So did the Tonner Edward in the plastic box for his protection on the Customer Service desk fifteen feet away; I flashed back to my sister's (now ex) boyfriend the BAM buyer ordering 500 of them for the chain at NYCC on my recommendation. And that was one of them. And it, too, had shellacked Corythosaurus hair. I felt very sorry for all of us. I was also starting to hallucinate a little bit, because I was thinking that it was a bit strange that the floor was turning into fluffy clouds, but they would probably feel very nice if I lay down and curled up in them. Fortunately, I was able to pull my shit together long enough to successfully operate the credit card machine. I even had a very pleasant conversation about [movie that will be made of certain book I was buying]. Then I restrained myself from throwing elbows into the small crowd of girls surrounding the two Twilight merchandise tables upstairs--I am not exaggerating any of that. It was an actual logjam. I was entering the Berserker Rage phase of all-day food deprivation and was prepared to pick up an Edward-faced backpack and start bushwhacking, except that a twelve-year-old saw my face and pushed her mother out of the way--and stormed off to the food court.
As far as I know, the woman in front of me is still at that register with her $200 worth of gift cards.
I will say that I checked my box on the way home, and there was a package full of Green and Black's chocolate but I have no idea who it was from. All I know is that emergency application became necessary. So thank you, from the bottom of the hearts of the people I did not kill because chocolate intervened.
By the way, remember this story?
Meanwhile, on the way home from our last excursion of the day, we dropped by my grandmother's to bring her some more ornaments. On the way out, I stopped to play with a--I don't know, I guess you'd call it a banner? It kind of looks like a long flat bell pull? I don't know. She has it hanging on her front door, and it's this tan-colored strip of fabric with little decorated felt Christmas trees, edged with shiny gold rickrack. "I loved this when I was a kid," I told her, shaking it a little so the bells would jingle. "Ruth made that," my grandmother said warmly. "She really liked arts and crafts. She made all of this herself, every bit of it. Even the tassels. She sewed everything on it there--the sequins, the little ornaments, she even put the pearls on the trees. She's dead now."
I managed not to crack up until I got to the car. My mother couldn't understand why I was doubled up in the passenger seat crying with laughter. I'm not sure I understand it myself.
This year, I got pictures of it:
And now, I flop.
P.S. I still want a foot massage really, really badly.
( Zomg e-book! The Annotated Movies in Fifteen Minutes: Wizards!)