Dateline: 12/22/12, 23:00 hours; This, the Holiday Season
Location: Embedded in the 'burbs; top secret designation
Reporter shellshocked from doing all gift shopping between 12/17 and 12/21; blames school administration for imprisoning faculty with adrenaline- and fudge-fueled teenagers until mere moments before Santa is scheduled to land in not-very-Green Country.
Yesterday was biggest shopping day planned. Plan goes south when reporter finds suspected gates of Hell hidden in a vortex at 61st and Mingo. Billions of vehicles circle the intersection, making random turns and reversing paths to escape the swirl and then complete stoppage of traffic in every direction. After 45 minutes, reporter is pulled from the whirlpool by a smoking, wheezing Toyota of indeterminate age, who allowed her to pull in to traffic ahead and return to the east, following that Holy Star, the shining beacon of economic prosperity, the radiant blue, gold, and white of the Wal-Mart Supercenter sign. Remaining gifts must come from this great Asian marketplace, purveyors of everything Sam Walton despised.
Zombified shoppers, driven by the tick-tick-tick of the clock counting down the hours of the last workday before the holiday, shuffle through the aisles pushing carts laden with toys, trinkets, and enough paper goods to host a national disaster. Entering grocery section only slightly less ambitious than storming the beaches at Normandy. Expecting medal ceremony to be announced shortly.
Random forays into baking aisle provide enough candy-making supplies to complete usual projects. However, reporter and various others discover covert action has removed ALL raw peanuts from this site. Roaming bands of would-be brittle-making grandma types seek even one lone raw Spanish goober, but fail. Will continue to search for materials at Atwoods, where gift idea for reporter's father will, with any luck, conk her in the noggin and knock her out until all the work of the next few days is done.
Return to base at 2000 hours, earliest all week, allowing one fudge-making session before reporter collapses in preparation for today's heat of laundry, phone calls, cooking, dishes, more candy-making, and prep for leaving two bored teenage cats alone for the week. More behind than ever and too tired to worry about it. Santa should be this busy. Reporter will pray for elves and angels to finish up and pack while she attends church in the a.m. in hopes of some time to just sit still.
Time for reflection of joy and memory making with family scheduled to begin at 1800 hours, Christmas Eve. Until next holiday season, then, readers, make much of your merriment and
enjoy your people. And stay away from 61st and Mingo if you value your mortal soul.
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