Shopping: The Real Nightmare Before Christmas

It’s no secret that I’m a bit of a curmudgeon.  Being pleasant for extended periods of time is simply exhausting to me.  So it’s not a surprise that avoiding human interaction is a huge priority during the holidays.

While I have friends that absolutely adore shopping during December, I find the whole experience about as joyous as a prison cell in Guantanamo.  The obvious solution would be to do all my shopping online, and early. Nice buzz.

I’m not nearly organized enough for that. This year I ordered my holiday cards on Thanksgiving and practically gave myself a high five because for a change they would get mailed before Christmas.  Or New Year’s.  Or Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

As far as gifting goes, I try to give my friends something simple for me that they’ll also enjoy and use. That is, booze. There are a million liquor stores around and they’re not usually crowded.  Alcohol: the perfect gift. Except when it isn’t.

There are a few people on my list who are either age challenged, i.e. children, or don’t drink.  Since I understand that giving a child or a non-drinker a bottle of Makers Mark is considered rude and disrespectful, I find myself going to the mall at least once a season.

Naturally, I postpone this excursion as long as possible, which just makes the whole process even worse.  The thing is, even during the non-busy season, say, in June, I hate malls. They make my skin crawl.

There was dark period in my life when I actually worked at a mall. I’d been summarily dismissed from my record label gig, but still had bills to pay. It was during the holiday season, so I took a deep breath and applied to work at a bookstore - they still had them then.  I got the job, but was assigned to handle the store’s calendar kiosk, which was located in the middle of the shopping center.I still have nightmares. 

It wasn’t just the inane shoppers who purchased dozens of Robert “Miracle of Light” Kincade calendars to give to all their friends, or the non-stop holiday music, though it ruined many a Christmas Carol for me. It was the sheer numbers of people that I had contact with everyday.

Since the kiosk was positioned in smack in the center of the mall, there were always people pushing and shoving around it. And talking to each other at the top of their lungs. I’m sure it was a prime position for sales, but to me it was akin to being in Hell. You know the phrase ‘hell is other people?’ Times ten. I’d drive home after every shift whimpering and shaking.

Hanukkah begins tonight and ends on Christmas Eve.  No matter how much I’ve trimmed my gift list; there are still a few people I need to reward for remaining a part of my life.

So, without even so much as a Xanax, I’m girding myself for a trip to the mall. I don’t live far from a shopping center (does anybody anymore?) so in theory it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes until I’m plunking down my credit card and heading home.

That, however, doesn’t take into account the MMA-like exercise that it takes to obtain a parking space. I don’t mind ditching my car a million miles from the stores. I could use the exercise, particularly around the holidays.  But even in the distant outskirts of the lot it takes quick reflexes and fast thinking to park. The fact is, people drive like brain damaged maniacs at the mall this time of year. Especially the ones that are leaving.

Apparently they have been so wounded by their experiences inside the building that they’re beyond reason. Like the animal that will chew off its own foot to get out of a trap, these folks just want to get away from the stores. And they will do anything to make that happen.

This makes the half-mile from the car to the stores a little adventure, but I suppose like Darwinism, it weeds out the weak.  Eventually the strong, the survivors make it inside. Of course that’s where things really go bad.

Smart people walk into the lion’s den knowing what they want. They quickly pick it up, pay for it and run for the hills. I am not one of them.

Not me.  I wander around blindly around looking for inspiration.  Invariably I become dazed and confused. Everything is so shiny, and pretty and so that I can no longer see or think straight. Inevitably, after a few hours I’ll stagger out to my car. Having bought nothing.

This year I’m going to make it easy. Everyone is getting a box of candy from Mrs. Sees.  Maybe those cute chocolate Santas for the kids. I’m sure their parents won’t mind that they are hopped up on sugar all Christmas morning. Right?

Emmy Awards and Golden Retrievers: Yup, I'm at UCLA

I started school last week and have already learned a bunch. For one thing, UCLA is a whole different universe from Skidmore, where I got my undergraduate degree.   And not just because Skidmore is in upstate New York, and UCLA is in Southern California. For one thing, UCLA is a lot bigger. When I started school last week I was pretty proud of myself for finding  the parking lot near my classrooms with ease. Of course, because this is Los Angeles and they knew we’d be driving, the school sent directions to the lot, which was extremely well marked.

               

Which is a good thing, because Lot 3 is split into permit spots and pay-per-spots. To get a permit you have to show up at the parking department in person between the hours of 9am and 5pm. Assuming, for a moment that one did have the time for that, you then have to wait in line for another hour before forking over a small fortune for the permit.  That wasn’t going to happen.

Since I am cheap as well as lazy, I headed for pay spots. Finding one was no problem, but locating the meter was a little tricky. Then I had to return to the car with the receipt to prove I had paid. The extra window of time I had allotted for getting lost on campus was starting to disappear and I was still in the parking lot.

I did have a school map. Those haven’t changed a bit since the last time I was looking for a classroom. In fact, except that it had more items on it, it could have been the exact same one I’d used at Skidmore. It was covered with dark smugey unreadable lumps that were purported to be classrooms and  had no relation to the real brick and mortal buildings in front of me. On top of that the map was minuscule and the campus is lush and dark. Even with the help of my cell phone flashlight, I had no idea where I was.

I did manage to find a cafeteria, two theaters, a library a lovely sculpture garden and a few dorms. What I couldn’t locate, was the building housing my first class. Eventually I flagged down a man walking two Golden Retrievers - unlike my college mutt, all the dogs at UCLA seem to carry pedigrees - who pointed me in the right direction. I had walked past the building numerous times, and didn’t see the sign. Oops.

Whatever hopes I’d had of sliding into the background vanished as I tore into the workshop 15 minutes late. Since there are only eight of us and everyone else was on time, I made quite an entrance. The teacher, let’s call him Professor Multiple Emmy Winner, was extremely nice about it.  I, however, was mortified.

                

The workshop is an interesting assortment of people. Not surprisingly, all of them, including Professor Multiple Emmy Winner, are younger than I am. By several decades. Two are just out of college. One traveled from Finland specifically to attend this program.  They all seem very nice, and surprisingly supportive.

                

That seems to be one of the goals of the program and was a theme of the first lecture: they want people to succeed. Which is a far cry from J-school, where they made it clear that their failure rate was something to be proud of. I never have figured out the point of that.

                

The lecture class is interesting. It’s led by an extremely enthusiastic teacher, let’s call him Professor Mentor-to-the-Stars, who knows his stuff inside out. He’s written several books on screenwriting, and could easily be a character in any number of college-based films. I liked him even better after he used a Tom Waits song to illustrate a point. I was the only one in the class who knew the song.  Which probably says a lot more about me than I should share. The tune was “Christmas Card from A Hooker in Minneapolis.” It’s great: go listen to it.

                

The lecture is the only time the entire class meets together. There are about 50 of us and as in the workshop, we’re a pretty diverse group. The majority of the class is younger than I am, but most aren’t fresh out of college.  There are a few codgers even older than me. Which is refreshing.

                

About ten of my classmates are from other parts of the world. One is an Iranian woman in her 20’s. I’m not so sure she’s going to stick around; yesterday I overheard her complaining about how much she hated Los Angeles. She told someone she should have just stayed in Paris. I’m sure that  can be arranged.

                

I must admit though, that, I was a little shaken when the professor announced homework. Not the assignment – that was fun. It was the actual phrase that grabbed me: Homework.

                

No matter how old you are, or how much you like what you’re doing, homework is a little like a knife to the heart. I immediately panicked : I was back in seventh grade algebra and staring at the board in slack-jawed confusion. But I took a deep breath, reminded myself that the one thing I have confidence about is my ability to write, and I tried to relax.

              

 Luckily, when I got my assignment back, the teacher – or his two overworked TAs - agreed.  Phew.  Because I was worried.  I know I have a lot to learn.