Oh, Unholy Night

There was a day when Thanksgiving was Thanksgiving. We'd be up with the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade running in the background - only to stop and watch when they pulled out the cast of the latest Broadway musical to perform on the streets of New York. We welcomed the season by listening to Christmas music for the first time in a year. Bob cooked all day, we all sat round the well dressed table, said a heartfelt grace, ate like we would never eat again, and then I would do a mountain's worth of dishes. There would be some talk about "a walk", but it was never managed. By 10:00 p.m. we would all pass out. We slept the next day till at least 9:00 or 9:30. Those were our traditions, and they were beautiful.

With the chaos of today's economy, those traditions have been upset dramatically over the past three Thanksgivings (including yesterday) with the new un-holy tradition of "Black Friday", wherein I obsess over sales all day Thursday and ruin my sleep Thanksgiving night to join the few other sanity-challenged individuals looking to save "UP TO 80%!!" at 4:00 in the morning.

This year, the retail industry ramped it up a bit by announcing "Midnight Madness" had come. Some of the stores would be open at midnight. In truth, the idea of lining up outside the mall doors before Thanksgiving day has actually ended is really offensive to me. I thought of boycotting in protest for those staff who had to be there through the night whether they liked it or not. I hoped that their employers made it worth it for them. They do not. But I decided in favor anyway, figuring I would get in and out quickly and return to bed by 2:00 a.m. to dream of Sugar Plum Fairies and such. So at 11:45 I got in the car with Bob and headed to the mall. Once there, I saw that the mall had been transformed. It was now hell.

As we were getting off the freeway, we could see from the off ramp that shopping at midnight was much more appealing than at 4:00 - the parking lots looked entirely full. Bob and I thought about turing around at that point but Christine and Grace were already there having gone to see a late movie timed to get out as stores opened. We drove straight to the top level of the parking structure and became part of the masses that made their way through the doors. Before I could take anything in, I went straight to the sleep wear department of Macy's to buy the traditional Christmas Eve gift of pajamas. Score! I got a tremendous price. Further, there weren't that many people in the sleep wear department. It went quickly and orderly. I felt good about that. But riding down the escalator to the first floor I saw what was really happening. I began to hear the thump, thump, thumping of a bass blaring dancing rythyms and I saw, in addition to a much larger group of people my age, a staggering sea of teenagers dressed primarily in pajamas - some of them wearing blankets around themselves. Noted as well was that in spite of their nocturnal attire, makeup had been freshly applied and hair was done. This of course, because "Midnight Madness" provided a new excuse for a late-night-date-night to anyone old enough to have passed their driver's test. In total, the crowds rivaled any Cecil B. DeMille could cast. (And if you are old enough to know who Cecil B. De Mille is, you have no business being at "Midnight Madness".)

Immediately I felt my blood pressure rise. I forged ahead to my next destination watching boys and girls running around as though they had just discovered the mall for the very first time. Central to the inside portion of the mall was a DJ (a DJ?!?!?) blaring - at that moment - Cee Lo Green's "Forget You".

Ah yes - I could practically smell the chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

In front of Holisters were two barefoot young men, dressed only in board shorts, sporting six-packs for the sole purpose - apparently - of allowing giggling girls to take turns having photos taken with them using their own cell phones. Kind of like Santa. Only without the red suit. Or the beard. Or the candy cane. Or the Christmas.

Moving outside to the outdoor end of the mall, in addition to frosty weather we were treated to another DJ - this one blaring Michael Jackson' "Billie Jean"

Billie Jean is not my lover.

She's just a girl who says that I am the one.

But the kid is not my son.

Yes indeed. Missing only was the mistletoe.

And the checkout lines in the stores? Two hours. No kidding. No sale is worth that so we skipped the stores I had planned and went to the smaller stores in hopes of finding some sort of workable alternative. Bob and Grace left by 2:00 a.m. but Christine and I braved it for no other reason than that we were already there. But store after store offered nothing but looked-over summer items for deep discounts and only moderate sale prices on new merchandise. I could easily do as well online. Or on Wednesday.

We stopped for coffee - mostly because our feet needed a break. Even though we were in athletic shoes it started to feel as though we were walking on wooden balls. Finally to JC Penny at 4:00 where I buy all my husband's clothes because he treats expensive clothes no better than economy brands so I give up. And I got really good deals there. But no real sense of accomplishment.

And then - try to find a place to sit for a moment. Every chair and couch in the mall is taken by teenage pairings: girlfriends nestled in boyfriends' laps - sleeping. Ahhhhh, how sweetly and completely...annoying. I fought the impulse to slap them.

I did make a stop at "the scary store". "Hot Topic". I was looking for one item in particular and felt this was the likeliest place to have it. I was aware of making a conscience effort to look directly at the sales girl who had black and cobalt blue spiked hair, tattoos up both arms and neck, piercings in her ears, lips, tongue, nose, and eyebrows and act as if she looked as normal as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Christine wanted to stop by "The Gap". She was a braver girl than I, and so I found a chair near Nordstrom (politely waiting until 10:00 a.m. to open) to wait for her. Many people had left by then but the music was still catering to the kids. Some rapper rapping lyrics I cannot understand. And thank God.

All around me, the ornamentation of Christmas - huge trees, boughs of holly, the window of "The Gap" reading - in big giant letters: "JOY". But there was none of that here. In fairness, one should never expect to find joy or Christmas at the mall on Black Friday. Or the mall at all. But I do remember being a young girl when the day after Thanksgiving was the first day you ever saw signs of the holidays. And the stores were brimming with festivity and excitement. And the music made your heart feel light and magical. Looking out the big glass windows at 5:45 a.m. seeing the first evidence of light - what I would have given to hear a bit of Bing Crosby dreaming of a White Christmas. For all the effort, you'd think they would have thrown this old dog a bone.

After all was said and done, I believe I can safely cross Black Friday off my list of things "to do". Forever. At 6:00 a.m. Christine and I decided to call it a nightmare and go home.

Mommy Lessons

Yesterday, for the second time, I spent the day at my friend Priscilla's house making cookies. The first thing you need to know is: I don't make cookies. Or anything really. I am a bad cook and a terrible baker. I don't think Priscilla knew that. But she took pity and asked me back.

The second thing you need to know is that the purpose of this "bake-a-thon" (this time with a couple of her other, more talented friends) was to make goodie boxes to send to our children away at college. And I don't do that either.

For my part, I brought the ingredients for oatmeal cookies. Now it is important to note that I didn't even bring Quaker Oats. I brought the generic Safeway brand and so the recipe on the box, it turns out, was inferior. Add to that the fact that I did not know my way around Priscilla's wonderful (and expensive!) KitchenAid mixer and it can be said with some certainly that I was a calamity. (I didn't secure the bowl into the base properly so when I turned it on, the beater and the base started taking a beating. In my haste to turn it off quickly, I turned the switch the wrong way - making the speed go faster still, creating all sorts of very noisy, scary sounding racket. I have never been so close to a heart attack. I know how well Priscilla takes care of her things and I certainly am not in a position to replace a $250.00 mixer right now! Tender mercies - no damage.)

As I mentioned earlier, I had had this play date once before, about a month ago when Priscilla did most everything and made her delicious Snicker Doodles. This time I was a more active, if not more reluctant, participant. Watching these other three women, comfortably maneuvering the kitchen was a little intimidating. I must say that Priscilla has a truly, truly spectacular kitchen. She has a tool for absolutely everything and everything has a well designed and organized place to live. Her home is of the gorgeous variety and her massive kitchen and breakfast room look out upon a beautiful and peaceful park-like yard. I found myself looking out that window a lot - taking in the tranquility and trying to apply it to the tasks at hand. With only fair results.

The first thing I noticed was that these three very charming ladies were fully capable of measuring, mixing, rolling and spooning - all while talking! I could not manage both those tasks at once. I could either talk or carefully follow recipe instructions. I watched as they measured vanilla by sight rather than teaspoon. I watched as they made expert cookie balls with a small scoop and laid them perfectly spaced - like little soldiers - on cookie trays. I watched as they "eyeballed" whether or not they were done in the oven. I watched as they used cookie cutters on sticky Rice Krispy Treats and pulled them off with the shapes clear and intact. I can't even do that with cookie dough. And, amazingly, nothing got dirty. Except for my work space - although I kept after it quickly. (I kept washing utensils and pans and bowls, only to find that they were still in use!)

Next while Priscilla has known these women for a few years, I noticed that her friends knew their way around her kitchen as if it were their own. They noticed her new, enviable refrigerator. They knew where all her supplies were. They could help me find things. I imagined that they knew each other well - but to know her kitchen so intimately? Why? Well, it turns out, they get together to do this about 5 times a year. For Back to School. For Halloween. For holiday. For Valentine's Day. And for end of school year. It is something of a tradition with them. Imagine that.

We made Peanut Butter Cookies, Peanut Butter Chocolate-Chip Cookies, Oatmeal Raisin Cookies, Oatmeal Raising Chocolate-Chip Cookies, Snicker Doodles, and Rice Krispy Treats and by my count we made about 250+ cookies that were distributed into 10 different care packages.

And then there were the care packages.

Once the cookies had cooled, Priscilla (organizational wizard, she) left the room and reentered carrying boxes of ribbons and bows and little cellophane bags and various colorful tissue paper. We sat down at the table and bagged small numbers of cookies in the bags, and chose ribbon that offered, hopefully, some autumn color (for the season) to tie them with. We selected not one but two or three ribbons or raffia to put together for each bag, adding color and texture. I watched as Jan (one of the other ladies) expertly cut and tied her packages. I know I am hopelessly creatively impaired, but seriously, how did she make such perfect knots with the right side of the ribbon always showing?

Again Priscilla disappeared for a moment only to return with a full stack of Priority Mail Flat Rate boxes. I mean who has those on hand?!?! I'll tell you who. Priscilla. AND she had a bag of packing peanuts. And she filled the bottom of each of the 10 boxes with them. Then the boxes were lined with pretty autumn colored tissue paper. Next several adorned bags of cookies were gingerly placed inside each of the boxes and topped with bubble wrap. But they were not sealed until we had been given stationery to write little notes to put inside.

This was an all-day event and I observed (like a duck out of water) for the most part what can only be called a labor of love. Generally, I don't do this kind of thing. But I was moved by this effort - an effort Priscilla and her friends didn't think twice about - hours of baking and preparing a cheerful package to send off to their kids in college. There is no doubt that the recipients are delighted by the sweet treats every time they arrive in the mail, but it's possible that it might be many years before they fully understand just how much love gets sealed up along with them. For that, the image of friends in a big kitchen making hundreds of cookies will stay with me.

As for my contribution - as I said, it was an inferior recipe. Calling for only brown sugar and no white, they taste more like health food cookies than your traditional oatmeal cookies. Add to that the fact that I let a couple of batches sit in the oven too long. Some have a slightly charcoal taste to them. So, to the kids of Priscilla, Mary, and Jan - my apologies. Your mothers let a novice into the kitchen with them. To my kids, there will be no question as to which ones I made. They may be hard to swallow but that strange, dry, burnt taste you can't quite recognize is the love.