| Biographical Non-Fiction posted April 12, 2007 |
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Ah! Sometimes you just gotta laugh. . .
'Tis the Season
by Mrs. KT
Okay. I'll admit it: I'm a Christmas shopaholic. No one enjoys the festive December holiday and all the frenetic madness it entails more than I do. The music, the sales, the bargains, the crowds, the satisfaction of finding the perfect gift for loved ones all contribute to my perennial excitement. With a family as large as mine coupled with a vast array of friends, co-workers, and neighbors, it only makes sense that Christmas shopping is a year long affair.
In the northern Michigan resort town where I have lived with my husband and children for the last twenty-eight years, quaint specialty stores line the streets of the cobbled-stoned downtown area. These lovely shops and boutiques are filled with unique and distinct creations. But I usually reserve trips to these establishments for window shopping. My friends and I spend many enjoyable hours delighting in their offerings and occasionally, I find incidentals to contribute to my own Christmas wish list lovingly created for my husband and children to use on their yearly "Yikes! - December 23rd ! - It's 4:00! – We've got to get Mom her Christmas gift!" jaunt downtown.
The bulk of my shopping, however, is conducted in a well-known Michigan based retail department store away from the downtown area. I've shopped there ever since moving to Traverse City thirty years ago. I am on a first-name basis with most of the salesclerks, because as my husband has pointed out on several occasions, I have contributed greatly to not only the store's financial success over the years, but said employees' job security as well. I take all of this good-natured banter in stride, preferring to think that the clerks' cordiality and helpfulness are merely reflections of my joyful personality and charming demeanor.
That said, I was more than a little surprised this past December when my favorite store employed numerous individuals as temporary seasonal help for the Christmas season. At the risk of sounding arrogant, self-righteous, or middle-aged, let me assure you that is not my intention. For as many hours as I spend shopping there, I've even considered taking on a part-time seasonal job at this lovely store as well.
It was rather unsettling, however, when on my last shopping venture before Christmas Eve, I did not recognize one salesclerk. And it was obvious that not one of them knew me from the next over-zealous holiday shopper.
Because I wanted to end the year with a somewhat clear conscience regarding my spending habits, I was determined not to charge any purchases; thus, I paid for my numerous items with personal checks. With every purchase made, I was asked to present not one, not two, but three pieces of identification. This soon became more than a little annoying as my checks contain every piece of information anyone would want to know about me, with the exception of my body measurements and my true hair color! The formality seemed not only ludicrous, but time consuming as well. However, I cheerfully and dutifully handed over personal identification cards, my license, and other credit cards to verify that I was who I said I was. Explaining, however, that, "Yes, 'Truelove' really is my last name," seven times within an hour began to have a not-so "Holly-Jolly" effect on my unflagging Christmas spirit.
By the time I was ready to leave the store, I had hauled out the needed pieces of identification more times than I cared to remember. I was also becoming extremely warm. Not just somewhat flushed, mind you, but warm enough that my hairdo was beginning to wilt – a sure sign in any given situation that not all is well with my world.
I remarked to the young girl standing behind the jewelry department's counter, after I had patiently waited for her to finish discussing with her co-worker where they were going to have lunch, that the store seemed unusually warm. I added that with all of my shopping bags and the difficulty I was having maneuvering through the cluttered aisles, perhaps I had better call it a day before I passed out.
She smiled weakly and suggested that I remove my sweater coat if I was uncomfortable. I assured her that I wasn't going to be in the store too much longer. Besides, I laughed, if I did that, it would be one more thing to carry, and with the aisles so crowded, I could quite possibly cause a merchandizing debacle.
Another weak smile was coupled with, "Well, then. Thank you. Come again." She then handed me my daughter's silver pendant.
"Merry Christmas!" I added after thanking her as well. I wasn't even fazed when she failed to reciprocate "Merry Christmas." I just wanted to get out of the store, go home, and begin wrapping my gifts.
Loaded down now with an excessive number of shopping bags, the beginning of a stress headache, a bedraggled hairdo, and still wearing my hand-knitted sweater coat, I made my way through the jewelry department, ladies' wear, housewares, and proceeded to the store's parking lot exit. I remember thinking to myself that the next time I came shopping, it would be prudent to wear something lighter than my full length boucle' sweater. It was beautiful and festive, but I was melting inside of it.
I set my packages down to retrieve my car keys from my purse before heading to the parking lot. (Why I can never seem to find them in a timely fashion after a shopping excursion is incomprehensible to me after all these years.) I finally located them at the bottom of my purse hidden underneath a multitude of coupons and receipts.
Keys now in hand, purse repositioned over my shoulder, and packages and shopping bags equally distributed, I turned and pushed the exit door with the only logical part of my anatomy available: my derriere.
I was shuffling halfway through the exit door when never in my life have I heard such a cacophony of sounds. I froze amid bells, whistles, and flashing red lights. Within seconds, three salesclerks gathered around me, including the young woman who had assisted me with feigned Christmas cheer just moments before in the jewelry department.
I stood in stunned silence as one of the salesclerks remarked in an accusatory tone that was none too subtle, "Someone must have left a security tag on one of the sweaters you just bought."
"Maybe," I muttered, keenly aware that a number of customers were gawking in my direction and clearly sidestepping the area.
One of the clerks firmly instructed me to step away from my collection of packages and step inside the store once again. Without asking my permission, she began to rifle through the shopping bag nearest her, and another clerk followed her lead with the remaining parcels.
"The Three Wise Women" appeared so intent on finding the errant security tag, that I suddenly found myself smiling and giggling nervously – a well-known embarrassing habit I have somehow perfected over the years. I jokingly remarked as I brushed my drooping bangs off my forehead, "When you find the sensor, do I get a discount coupon for your oversight, or is the purchase automatically free?"
Huge mistake!
The jewelry clerk tersely remarked, "This is not a laughing matter, Ma'am. We have been instructed to thoroughly check all packages if the alarms sound. Shop-lifting is a serious offense at this department store and a punishable crime in the state of Michigan."
"Shop-lifting?" I incredulously exclaimed. "You have got to be kidding! I've shopped at this store for over twenty-five years!"
I almost added, "Do you know who I am?" (After all, that line had once worked with my mother in front of an arrogant, misguided Catholic priest.) But I quickly decided that silence would be the better part of valor in the present situation.
One of the clerks bundled all of my merchandise back into their appropriate bags – slightly skewed from their original packaging, and efficiently remarked, "She looks clean. Must be just a bug in the alarm. You can go, Ma'am. Don't take it personal."
"Well, good deal," I managed to offer in spite of the fact that I was now really boiling, and my condition had nothing to do with the fiber content of my sweater. If there is one common, overused, and mundane expression I absolutely despise, it is the one that the nubile, size four salesclerk had just uttered: "Don't take it personal."
I loathe it for two obvious reasons:
1. If people must use that expression, they should at least learn how to utter it in its grammatically correct form: "personally" not "personal!"
2. If the action is directed towards my person, how am I not to take it personally?
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. The inferred accusation, the poor grammar, the over-zealous clerks, the entire situation was just plain ridiculous!
However, deciding to spare these young women my diatribes about correct grammar and usage, once again I smiled, gathered my parcels, and opened the door. I was definitely done shopping for the day. A cup of green tea would be so comforting right now. . . Hell! Why bother with tea? I was headed straight to the nearest bistro to treat myself to an amaretto sour! Maybe a double. . .
All I had to do was remain composed and run to my car as quickly as I could before I started to cry.
But, one foot outside the perimeter of "No Man's Land," the alarm system blasted again in overdrive.
I immediately stopped, turned around, and offered another weak smile to whoever was in my range.
The clerks hadn't moved.
None was smiling.
"Perhaps you should remove your sweater now, Ma'am." Ah. . . the ubiquitous jewelry salesclerk.
My reply was quick and surprisingly furious, "Just what are you suggesting, young lady?"
Before she could respond, I felt a light tap on my shoulder.
I quickly turned around, sufficiently embarrassed enough to do battle with whoever had just invaded my private space.
Standing directly behind me was a diminutive, well-dressed elderly woman clutching an oversized brown handbag. She smiled demurely and patted me on my arm.
"My dear, I just thought you should know. You have a pair of golden earrings dangling from your behind."
"I what?"
"It's your sweater, dear. The earrings are hooked to the back of your sweater. . . on your behind."
I reached behind me, and sure enough, within moments the golden baubles were located. . . on my left cheek. . . having clearly hitched a ride on my treasured boucle sweatered rear end as I had traipsed through the jewelry aisle.
No one said anything. In fact, amid all the noise and commotion that had seemingly enveloped and overwhelmed the entire exit area, all was eerily quiet.
I looked at the clerks.
They looked at me.
"Well, ladies," I finally began. "Shall I remove these delightful appendages, or would one of you care to do the honors?'
(Okay. . . A little snippy, I will admit. A little out of character. . . Not really. . . not with droopy hair. . . not in my favorite store. . . not doing what I love to do. . .not on December 23rd, dammit!)
Within moments the earrings were carefully removed, compliments of the jewelry clerk.
No apologies were offered. No coupons were suggested. No charges were filed.
"Am I free to go now, ladies?" I quietly inquired.
"Certainly," replied the jewelry clerk. And then she added with a slight smile, "Merry Christmas, Ma'am. Come again."
I looked at this young woman and her two companions, who I knew were waiting, anticipating my reply. And of all the things I could have said or done, I simply started to laugh. Not my giggling, nervous laugh but a genuine, uproarious laugh. A laugh for all the Christmases past and all the Christmases to come. A laugh for all the times I have appeared and acted as proficiently as these three eager young women, just doing their job. A laugh for all the times I have taken things "'personal."
And before I knew it, they were laughing, too. All three of them.
"Merry Christmas to you, too," I replied as I once again gathered my purchases and my self-respect. "'Tis the season, ladies. . .'Tis the season. . ."
Okay. I'll admit it: I'm a Christmas shopaholic. No one enjoys the festive December holiday and all the frenetic madness it entails more than I do. The music, the sales, the bargains, the crowds, the satisfaction of finding the perfect gift for loved ones all contribute to my perennial excitement. With a family as large as mine coupled with a vast array of friends, co-workers, and neighbors, it only makes sense that Christmas shopping is a year long affair.
In the northern Michigan resort town where I have lived with my husband and children for the last twenty-eight years, quaint specialty stores line the streets of the cobbled-stoned downtown area. These lovely shops and boutiques are filled with unique and distinct creations. But I usually reserve trips to these establishments for window shopping. My friends and I spend many enjoyable hours delighting in their offerings and occasionally, I find incidentals to contribute to my own Christmas wish list lovingly created for my husband and children to use on their yearly "Yikes! - December 23rd ! - It's 4:00! – We've got to get Mom her Christmas gift!" jaunt downtown.
The bulk of my shopping, however, is conducted in a well-known Michigan based retail department store away from the downtown area. I've shopped there ever since moving to Traverse City thirty years ago. I am on a first-name basis with most of the salesclerks, because as my husband has pointed out on several occasions, I have contributed greatly to not only the store's financial success over the years, but said employees' job security as well. I take all of this good-natured banter in stride, preferring to think that the clerks' cordiality and helpfulness are merely reflections of my joyful personality and charming demeanor.
That said, I was more than a little surprised this past December when my favorite store employed numerous individuals as temporary seasonal help for the Christmas season. At the risk of sounding arrogant, self-righteous, or middle-aged, let me assure you that is not my intention. For as many hours as I spend shopping there, I've even considered taking on a part-time seasonal job at this lovely store as well.
It was rather unsettling, however, when on my last shopping venture before Christmas Eve, I did not recognize one salesclerk. And it was obvious that not one of them knew me from the next over-zealous holiday shopper.
Because I wanted to end the year with a somewhat clear conscience regarding my spending habits, I was determined not to charge any purchases; thus, I paid for my numerous items with personal checks. With every purchase made, I was asked to present not one, not two, but three pieces of identification. This soon became more than a little annoying as my checks contain every piece of information anyone would want to know about me, with the exception of my body measurements and my true hair color! The formality seemed not only ludicrous, but time consuming as well. However, I cheerfully and dutifully handed over personal identification cards, my license, and other credit cards to verify that I was who I said I was. Explaining, however, that, "Yes, 'Truelove' really is my last name," seven times within an hour began to have a not-so "Holly-Jolly" effect on my unflagging Christmas spirit.
By the time I was ready to leave the store, I had hauled out the needed pieces of identification more times than I cared to remember. I was also becoming extremely warm. Not just somewhat flushed, mind you, but warm enough that my hairdo was beginning to wilt – a sure sign in any given situation that not all is well with my world.
I remarked to the young girl standing behind the jewelry department's counter, after I had patiently waited for her to finish discussing with her co-worker where they were going to have lunch, that the store seemed unusually warm. I added that with all of my shopping bags and the difficulty I was having maneuvering through the cluttered aisles, perhaps I had better call it a day before I passed out.
She smiled weakly and suggested that I remove my sweater coat if I was uncomfortable. I assured her that I wasn't going to be in the store too much longer. Besides, I laughed, if I did that, it would be one more thing to carry, and with the aisles so crowded, I could quite possibly cause a merchandizing debacle.
Another weak smile was coupled with, "Well, then. Thank you. Come again." She then handed me my daughter's silver pendant.
"Merry Christmas!" I added after thanking her as well. I wasn't even fazed when she failed to reciprocate "Merry Christmas." I just wanted to get out of the store, go home, and begin wrapping my gifts.
Loaded down now with an excessive number of shopping bags, the beginning of a stress headache, a bedraggled hairdo, and still wearing my hand-knitted sweater coat, I made my way through the jewelry department, ladies' wear, housewares, and proceeded to the store's parking lot exit. I remember thinking to myself that the next time I came shopping, it would be prudent to wear something lighter than my full length boucle' sweater. It was beautiful and festive, but I was melting inside of it.
I set my packages down to retrieve my car keys from my purse before heading to the parking lot. (Why I can never seem to find them in a timely fashion after a shopping excursion is incomprehensible to me after all these years.) I finally located them at the bottom of my purse hidden underneath a multitude of coupons and receipts.
Keys now in hand, purse repositioned over my shoulder, and packages and shopping bags equally distributed, I turned and pushed the exit door with the only logical part of my anatomy available: my derriere.
I was shuffling halfway through the exit door when never in my life have I heard such a cacophony of sounds. I froze amid bells, whistles, and flashing red lights. Within seconds, three salesclerks gathered around me, including the young woman who had assisted me with feigned Christmas cheer just moments before in the jewelry department.
I stood in stunned silence as one of the salesclerks remarked in an accusatory tone that was none too subtle, "Someone must have left a security tag on one of the sweaters you just bought."
"Maybe," I muttered, keenly aware that a number of customers were gawking in my direction and clearly sidestepping the area.
One of the clerks firmly instructed me to step away from my collection of packages and step inside the store once again. Without asking my permission, she began to rifle through the shopping bag nearest her, and another clerk followed her lead with the remaining parcels.
"The Three Wise Women" appeared so intent on finding the errant security tag, that I suddenly found myself smiling and giggling nervously – a well-known embarrassing habit I have somehow perfected over the years. I jokingly remarked as I brushed my drooping bangs off my forehead, "When you find the sensor, do I get a discount coupon for your oversight, or is the purchase automatically free?"
Huge mistake!
The jewelry clerk tersely remarked, "This is not a laughing matter, Ma'am. We have been instructed to thoroughly check all packages if the alarms sound. Shop-lifting is a serious offense at this department store and a punishable crime in the state of Michigan."
"Shop-lifting?" I incredulously exclaimed. "You have got to be kidding! I've shopped at this store for over twenty-five years!"
I almost added, "Do you know who I am?" (After all, that line had once worked with my mother in front of an arrogant, misguided Catholic priest.) But I quickly decided that silence would be the better part of valor in the present situation.
One of the clerks bundled all of my merchandise back into their appropriate bags – slightly skewed from their original packaging, and efficiently remarked, "She looks clean. Must be just a bug in the alarm. You can go, Ma'am. Don't take it personal."
"Well, good deal," I managed to offer in spite of the fact that I was now really boiling, and my condition had nothing to do with the fiber content of my sweater. If there is one common, overused, and mundane expression I absolutely despise, it is the one that the nubile, size four salesclerk had just uttered: "Don't take it personal."
I loathe it for two obvious reasons:
1. If people must use that expression, they should at least learn how to utter it in its grammatically correct form: "personally" not "personal!"
2. If the action is directed towards my person, how am I not to take it personally?
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. The inferred accusation, the poor grammar, the over-zealous clerks, the entire situation was just plain ridiculous!
However, deciding to spare these young women my diatribes about correct grammar and usage, once again I smiled, gathered my parcels, and opened the door. I was definitely done shopping for the day. A cup of green tea would be so comforting right now. . . Hell! Why bother with tea? I was headed straight to the nearest bistro to treat myself to an amaretto sour! Maybe a double. . .
All I had to do was remain composed and run to my car as quickly as I could before I started to cry.
But, one foot outside the perimeter of "No Man's Land," the alarm system blasted again in overdrive.
I immediately stopped, turned around, and offered another weak smile to whoever was in my range.
The clerks hadn't moved.
None was smiling.
"Perhaps you should remove your sweater now, Ma'am." Ah. . . the ubiquitous jewelry salesclerk.
My reply was quick and surprisingly furious, "Just what are you suggesting, young lady?"
Before she could respond, I felt a light tap on my shoulder.
I quickly turned around, sufficiently embarrassed enough to do battle with whoever had just invaded my private space.
Standing directly behind me was a diminutive, well-dressed elderly woman clutching an oversized brown handbag. She smiled demurely and patted me on my arm.
"My dear, I just thought you should know. You have a pair of golden earrings dangling from your behind."
"I what?"
"It's your sweater, dear. The earrings are hooked to the back of your sweater. . . on your behind."
I reached behind me, and sure enough, within moments the golden baubles were located. . . on my left cheek. . . having clearly hitched a ride on my treasured boucle sweatered rear end as I had traipsed through the jewelry aisle.
No one said anything. In fact, amid all the noise and commotion that had seemingly enveloped and overwhelmed the entire exit area, all was eerily quiet.
I looked at the clerks.
They looked at me.
"Well, ladies," I finally began. "Shall I remove these delightful appendages, or would one of you care to do the honors?'
(Okay. . . A little snippy, I will admit. A little out of character. . . Not really. . . not with droopy hair. . . not in my favorite store. . . not doing what I love to do. . .not on December 23rd, dammit!)
Within moments the earrings were carefully removed, compliments of the jewelry clerk.
No apologies were offered. No coupons were suggested. No charges were filed.
"Am I free to go now, ladies?" I quietly inquired.
"Certainly," replied the jewelry clerk. And then she added with a slight smile, "Merry Christmas, Ma'am. Come again."
I looked at this young woman and her two companions, who I knew were waiting, anticipating my reply. And of all the things I could have said or done, I simply started to laugh. Not my giggling, nervous laugh but a genuine, uproarious laugh. A laugh for all the Christmases past and all the Christmases to come. A laugh for all the times I have appeared and acted as proficiently as these three eager young women, just doing their job. A laugh for all the times I have taken things "'personal."
And before I knew it, they were laughing, too. All three of them.
"Merry Christmas to you, too," I replied as I once again gathered my purchases and my self-respect. "'Tis the season, ladies. . .'Tis the season. . ."
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