Oh, What Fun

It just had to be done today. I had to venture out into the unfriendly masses and face a bank teller for the copious cash for the holiday tips and I had to buy holiday cards. There was no other way around it. I'm painfully behind schedule.

Fortified by multiple cups of strong coffee, I ventured out to the Upper West Side. As anticipated, the streets were teaming with shoppers, their arms ringed with shopping bags, pushing strollers and walking in quartets. In order to pass these hundreds of lolly gagging holiday loving pedestrians, I maneuvered around them stealth like and at double time, like a football player would execute a training obstacle course.

First stop, the bank. The line for the tellers snaked 30 deep. Once I arrived at the teller's window, I requested the withdrawal of my hard earned coin, directing denominations (x number in 100s, x number in 50s...and so on). The teller looked at me blankly. Finally he said, "Everyone came to get their holiday tip money yesterday. I don't have any 100 dollar bills. Or 50s. Or even ten dollar bills." I had a fleeting moment of terror that I would be doling out holiday tips in singles. The teller had 20 dollar bills only ("Unless you want to wait till Tuesday," he said with a stellar indifference). I'll take the 20s. When he finally counted (and recounted) a fat stack of twenty dollar bills, he stuffed them into an envelope and gave them to me. I had a fleeting moment of that scene in "It's a Wonderful Life" where Donna Reed flips through the honeymoon money and says, "I feel like a bootlegger's wife!" And I sort of did, carrying that fat packet of money in my purse.

The next stop was Barnes & Noble for holiday cards. We usually send out about 100 cards a year and I try to buy different varieties to appeal to the appropriate audiences. A box of Jesus/Virgin Mary/Raphaelite art for the older Polish family contingent, sundry Catholics and Jesus-y types. A box of traditional snow scenes for relatives. Several boxes of arty Metropolitan Museum of Art cards for friends. A box of generic non denominational scenes for the people getting tips (you've got to put the cash in something). A box of "Peace on Earth" cards for acquaintances, work colleagues and my Jewish friends that I forgot to send Hanukkah cards to. A box of downright crude holiday humor for those good friends (and my brother) who I know will appreciate them.

I walked into Barnes and Noble and immediately thought, "What fresh hell is this?" The store was jam packed. Literally slammed with hundreds of people in every aisle and in every square inch of space. The line to pay the cashier on the ground level had at least--at least--50 people in it. Customers strode through the aisles with force, pushing past people with their big shopping bags and their nasty attitudes. No "excuse me" was heard, nor the simplest acknowledgment of thanks for moving out of someones way. Store staff were stationed to move people through the cashier line and one man stood on a ladder to direct customers to the next cashier. It was retail Armageddon. After 20 minutes of shuffling through card selections, I came away with $157 worth of choices sure to please every seasonal palate.

I've crossed that task off my list but I still have much to accomplish for the holidays. I need to purchase a few cases of champagne to gift my managers at work. I think I'll do that in the civilized environs of Connecticut. I still need to order gifts for family in California and a few special friends. I'll do that online. I'll do anything--absolutely anything--to avoid going into the stores again.

I do love being in Manhattan at this time of year. Rockefeller Center is extraordinary. The lights in Herald Square dazzle. Radio City has an astounding Christmas show. It is glorious if you omit the retail experience. You'd have more fun waiting in line to use the toilet at a free concert on the hottest day of the summer. Run away, people. Christmas shopping in Manhattan is the ultimate fear box.

There is good news, though which keeps my holiday cheer intact. No one has stolen the wreath on my apartment door yet.