Some people love to shop. I am not one of them.
Due to my shy and introverted nature, there are not too many people who expect me to buy them presents, so it usually works out OK. These days, I only shop for my wife and my son. She's easy to buy for because she understands my shopping ineptitude and will forgive just about any hideous gift, as long as it seems that I sincerely thought she'd like it. (Yes, I know I am a lucky bastard to have such a great wife. Believe me, I know it.) And my son is easy to buy for because he is a musician and computer geek -- and hanging around music and computer stores isn't really like shopping; I can handle that.
It wasn't always this way. I used to buy for every stinking member of the extended family -- even the ones that were really extended. And the ones who really stink. Distant cousins got colored tube socks, in-law types got spice-rack accessories, and siblings typically got things that could either be hurled, blown up, or played on our ultra-modern 7-disk stacking turntable.
(Nostalgic interlude: It was SO cool to be able to stack 7 vinyl LP records on top of the shiny silver spindle. It was magic when a record ended...apparently, rapid movement into the final groove signalled the unit that the record was over -- the arm would rise under its own power and move gracefully back to its resting place. Then the tiny center post of the spindle assembly would gently nudge the next record over bit by bit...until PLOP, it fell down on top of the previous disk. There was always the possibility that TWO disks would fall at once, but that was OK -- since the turntable had shock absorption springs. The turntable would bounce up and down for a moment after impact, and then there'd be that instant of slippage as the grooves were ground down while friction struggled to help the old record grip the new record. At that point, the magic tone arm would majestically glide over and drop itself precisely into the first spiral groove. Then, music would play... unless the needle missed the record and landed on the turntable pad, in which case your eardrums exploded from the noise of the highly-amplified needle trying to read the random bumps of the non-playable turntable surface.
Yes, even though it was a 7-stack turntable -- we DID experiment with 8 records on the spindle. The springs creaked and groaned, the slippage took years of life from the disk, and sometimes the needle would whack into the side of the stack instead of descending from above it. It was not pretty, but we were kids, and kids understand that labels are merely guidelines -- it is human duty to experimentally discover the edge of the envelope. It's a pity that kids today do not have the same learning opportunities -- you put the CD in the slot...it disappears -- where's the wonder and romance in that?)
Anyway, one Christmas season is especially memorable for the shopping opportunities it offered. I was working 3 jobs -- hey, a geek with no social life has nothing better to do, OK? One was a regular day job, handing out pencils and erasers in the Engineering Supply Room at Boeing. Another was working at McDonald's, and the third was picking up a few hours here and there at a local "Catalog Showroom" store called Ardan. With my degree in Radio/TV/Film, I was a natural to work in the Camera department, where most of my time was spent helping people decipher which size lens cap they should buy to replace the one they lost when they dropped it down the Grand Canyon while trying to take a picture of Aunt Edna holding that goddamn obnoxious crap-machine of a yapping miniature poodle she always had to bring along on otherwise pleasant trips. Sometimes I'd actually help a customer decide whether to buy a Nikon or a Pentax unit, but most of my time was spent hawking batteries or explaining that despite all logic to the contrary, Cabbage Patch dolls would not be found in the Photography Department...might I suggest you try the DOLL DEPARTMENT instead?
The great thing about working there was the fact that employees received a 30% discount on any purchases in the store. I'd had Calculus in college, so I knew that if you used that discount to buy 3 1/3 items, it added up to 100%. That means FREE, baby. Well, I know a bargain when I see one, so I put that discount to good use. No more socks for the cousins -- this year they get waffle irons. In-laws get 2-ton floor jacks or complete sets of patio furniture. Heck, I bought modular stereo systems, lava lamps, fondue pots, 14-piece Armor-All Gift Sets (with Holiday-themed chamois), and multiple copies of every album Englebert Humperdinck had ever recorded. For stocking stuffers, I bought Joe Namath autographed playing cards, musk-scented soap-on-a-rope, and X-Tra Powerful horseshoe magnets. I may have been a zit-faced engineering supply room geek, but I honestly felt like Santa Freakin' Claus, himself.
It was a great Christmas. The Joy of Giving turned immediately into the Joy of Being Liked Cuz I Bought People Cool Stuff. Despite having zero social skills, I was momentarily accepted as a valid member of the extended clan. It didn't last, of course, but for a day or two, people I barely knew were suddenly asking my opinion on which ASA film they should use, and whether a UV filter was a better purchase than a Polarizing filter. Or whether I knew if Englebert and Tom Jones were really good friends like they pretended to be on TV. Life was good.
It was over by New Years. As usual, I received no invitations to New Years Eve parties -- which was OK, since I can't stay up that late, anyway. I'm not one to waste time, though -- while everyone else was watching Dick Clark, I was putting the time to use by opening up the past week's mail. MasterCard, VISA, bank statements, etc.
Uh oh. As I absorbed the latest correspondence, it came back to me --- I had flunked Calculus. Perhaps something was flawed in the way I approached the holiday discount math. Instead of shopping for a bunch of FREE presents, it appeared that I was suddenly deeply in debt. I owed more on my MasterCard than I had earned in my entire Ardan tenure. Hell, the sales tax alone equalled the combined GNP of all South American countries whose names end in "guay". It would take many, many more hours of handing out rulers and erasers before I'd be able to buy anything new again. Sigh.
I eventually recovered. But I never enjoyed shopping as much after that. In today's world, I am a firm follower of those Christmas gurus who claim that personally-created gifts are best. Rather than spend money, I now write a special poem for each of my dearest loved ones. (They each get the same poem, but don't tell them that.) Cousins, in-laws, and anybody who's "twice-removed" or anything -- get squat. Sorry, but that's the way it is. Bah humbug. I could justify my cheapness by railing on and on about my disgust with the crass commercialism of the season, but you've all seen Linus give that speech to Charlie Brown. So I'll just leave you with these special words:
(Feel free to use them yourself -- you'll save a ton of money and headaches. Just write it on some card stock and draw some holly and crap like that around it. Works every time.)
- My Dear --Insert special person's name here--:
You know that you are special...
For you mean so much to me.
I wish you lots of presents
Underneath your Christmas tree.
I want to give you something
That reveals how much I care.
But silly toys and trinkets,
Can't begin to get us there.
So all I'll do is mention
How I really care for you,
And wish you happy New Year,
And a Merry Christmas, too.
