We spent most of our Christmas vacation visiting relatives in Ohio and Indiana, which would be enough traveling for most people. Frank, aka He Who Refuses to Sit Still, decided that we needed to break up the monotony of watching my parents' big screen TV and eating leftovers for five days in a row with a little visit to Mammouth Cave in Kentucky. The last time I let him talk me into a "side trip," we ended up being stuck in Samoa for two days waiting for a plane to take us back to Hawaii via Auckland, New Zealand. If you're familiar with the South Pacific, then you know that Auckland is exactly five hours in the opposite direction from Samoa as Honolulu, but desperate travelers do desperate things. Forgive me if I'm a bit skeptical when he mentions a five hour "side trip" to anywhere.
I agreed to go along with this Mammouth Cave excursion but only after Frank conceded that we would not leave until after my mom and I spent four joyful hours at the Macy's Day After Christmas Sale. According the newspaper, Macy's was opening at 6:00 am and anyone with a coupon would receive an additional 20% off the sale prices.
We set out on a frosty, dark Ohio morning at 5:30 am, with visions of overflowing clearance racks and amazing 90% mark-downs in our heads. Frank cheerfully drove us to the mall to be there when Macy's opened. He thought that by going along with us, he could hurry the process of getting on the road to the World's Longest Cave. My mother now thinks that Frank is the King of All Son-in-Laws for not only getting up that early, but never complaining that we were taking too long or threatening to go sit in the car, which is where my dad would be after about ten minutes.
We arrived at 6 am on the dot, to a few cars in the parking lot and little fanfare. Far, far from the madding crowds I was expecting, we were apparently the only people ridiculous enough to venture out this early. I used to look at ads for stores saying, "Open at 6 am!" and think, "What form of dementia causes people get up at 6 am to go shopping?" Now I know. I'm one of them now.
Inside, we were met by some bleary-eyed sales people who looked about as thrilled to be there as I would if I had to go to work at 6 am on the day after Christmas. The mall was eerily quiet, with just some Muzak rendition of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" playing on what seemed to be an infinite loop.
This was a kind of shopping nirvana for me. Everything was marked down to a fraction of the original cost, sales people were actually helpful, and there were no lines for dressing rooms or check out. We were able to use all the coupons my mom clipped from the multiple copies of the Middletown Journal that she dutifully collected for the occasion during the week before. Despite my general dislike for shopping, I had fun.
Eventually, a dozen or so chipper retirees filtered in to return things. My mom explained that "when you get old, you just can't sleep past dawn anymore." Most of the little old ladies were accompanied by little old men toting Remote Control Monster Trucks that they could not get to work properly for their disappointed grandsons. Frank was happy to see that he was not the only male at the mall. He shopped for shoes, and made his way to the Food Court for coffee and a breakfast sandwich involving pork products of questionable origin. He was content and didn't complain at all. I think he was dreaming of the marvelous geological formations he would encounter at Mammouth Cave, and ignoring the bad coffee and Muzak. He has amazing coping skills.
My mom and I spent most of our time in the Big & Chunky Gal department looking at clothes that I might be able to wear to work. I got a promotion right before Christmas, and my mom was convinced that I now needed to "look like the boss."
What? No more Land's End cotton yoga pants? No more t-shirts and flannels and looking like an elderly reject from the touring company of Annie? My mother had other ideas for me. Based on some of her choices, however, my mother must be under the impression that my new job title is that of "Prison Matron."
I have been described as many things in my life, but "fashionista" is not one of them. During the time I was a stay-at-home mom, I think I wore the same four pairs of slacks and a pair of jeans in permanent rotation for about four years. I bought clothes for special occasions, but the everyday uniform of stretchy pants, big t-shirts and a polar fleece jacket from a tech conference proclaiming the virtures of 193nm semiconductor technology. I should probably be walking around with a permanent black bar across my eyes, as a perpetual example of a "Glamour Don't." I live in fear that those bitchy people from "What Not To Wear" will come and burn my wardrobe. I'm schlumpy and proud, dammit.
Nonetheless, I succumbed to my mother's notion that I needed some new clothes, and at 75% off, who could resist? At Macy's, we lined up a few dozen outfits and I paraded them out of the dressing room for Mom's rating on whether it was appropriately boss-like. The highest endorsement that she could give was an enthusiastic "That makes you look slimmer!" which in my-mom-speak means, "Don't just buy one, buy one in every color!"
At the opposite end was the "that might be good for lounging around the house" or "so that's what the kids are wearing these days." Translation: "I'm not going to be seen in public with you wearing that, so put it away before you burn my retinas with ugly rag, sister." If I spend more that four hours in a row with my mother, I usually end up wondering how I managed to survive for nearly thirty years on my own without her to dress me. I ended up with eight tops and two pairs of business-casual slacks, and nary a t-shirt or elastic waistband in sight.
By the time we left, the stores were starting to fill up with people returning things. It started to become a free-for-all in the Elder-Beerman Christmas department. Glass ornaments that were previously $50 were flying off the shelves for $4.99. All around normally mild-mannered grannies in holiday sweaters appliqued with reindeer and snowmen were digging through bins of ornaments and arguing over who got the last Precious Moments 2006 Baby Jesus figurine. It had the potential to turn ugly, so we headed out with our booty.
Since her retirement, my mom has gone semi-pro as a bargain shopper. She spends her time at the local mall hovering around items like a vulture ready to swoop in on a carcass as soon as it's marked "75% off." Nothing better get between this petite Asian woman and a pair of marked down size 5 1/2 flipflops with gold tassles, or blood will be shed, I can assure you. She's small, but she's wily and scrappy, my mom. Those blue-haired grannies better watch out, because nothing stands between my mom and a good deal.
The big score on this trip, the one that will go down in our annals of family lore, was one porcelein nativity scene, originally $69.95, that was marked down to $9.95. Since my mom had a $10 off coupon, the saleslady just handed it back to her and said, "Our gift to you!" and didn't bother ringing it up. My mom will be recounting this transaction to her friends and to our family for years to come. I'm sure that next year, the nativity scene will adorn the top of the big screen TV set. Only a real bargain shopper could get away with something for free.
