Fragrance Foul

Do you remember the old days when stores didn't have their own unique smell? When industrial floor cleaner was the only scent you noticed when shopping. I, for one, miss those days. Shopping has become an assault on the senses, a dizzying combination of lights, sounds and smells.

Yesterday I accompanied my wife to the local mall to return a gift bathrobe which was the wrong size. Deep down I knew that this errand would not entail a short trip to the Customer Service counter, an exchange of items, and a quick trot back to the car, but I was hoping. After taking care of the matter at hand, my wife turned away from the outer door from which we entered and pointed herself towards the wide open spaces of the main mall. Dutifully, I shuffled behind.

Thankfully, my wife is not a marathon shopper, but rather a brisk moving hunter who visits only her select stores. A former gymnast, she is five foot nothing and less than one hundred pounds, yet has shoulders like an NFL strong safety. Clothes shopping is a chore for her, an annoying search for frocks that fit. Rarely am I present when she shops for things to wear.
However, I always seem to be with her when she is nick-knack shopping.

Last night we ran the nick-knack circuit. All of these shops carry a strong potpourri aroma that immediately attacks my sinuses upon entering the store. Tears drip down my cheek, my eyes burning from the pungent odor. I stumble through the brick-a-bra ck feeling my way through the aisles. I need to get out of this store! How many wooden Santa Claus's can one person look at anyway? Finally, through my stinging peepers I am able to spot daylight. Brushing past the crowded register I exit and vigorously rub my eyes. My wife leaves the store, beholds my blinking, flinching form before her, shakes her head and forges onward.
It's on to the candle store.

The moment we enter the candle store, my nose hair stages an immediate revolt. It feels like I am going to sneeze, but I don't, I just have that pre-sneeze inhale with no payoff. My face is now contorted in sneeze mode, prompting a concerned sales person to check and see if I am alright. I assure he that I am currently loosing a battle a yet undetermined scent and that I will be fine once I am able to breath again. Sensing that I am disabled and therefore a prime sales target, she attempts to sell me on the healing benefits of the Mandarin Cranberry candle. I politely decline the sales pitch and spot my wife leaving the store. I suck in the fresh mall air like a prisoner just released from solitary confinement.

My wife continues on with me in tow. Before entering yet another nick-knack store, my wife graciously offers me a pardon, pointing to a vacant bench in the middle of the mall. My plan was to make that bench my temporary mall home for the duration of the visit. I sat down, my nose relaxed and happy. Minutes later a woman talking on her cell phone sits down beside me. With her is a huge shopping bag from Bed, Bath and Beyond. A familiar stench rises from the bag and heads directly for my adenoids. Sugar and Fig bath sets are 50% off. Help!

What is that?

In a season known for giving, my sister-in-law is a gift terrorist. Not a person I would ever describe as "friendly", Debbie uses presents like weapons in her not-so-subtle attacks upon other family members.

It started nine years ago when she presented my wife (her sister) with a colorful box full of used towels. Christmas towels were on my wife's wish list and nothing says "I care" more than pre-stained towels. Over the years Debbie has cast her scorn upon all of us. One year my son received a one dollar gift certificate to Dairy Queen from his aunt. Even if she skipped him completely he could reason that maybe he was forgotten, but a one dollar gift certificate says "I remember, I just don't think much of you".

A few years back I received a lovely book on how to write a winning resume from Debbie, although I was gainfully employed at the time. Apparently, either Debbie knew something about my job situation that I didn't know, or she just didn't have much confidence in my ability to keep a job. I worried for weeks that somehow she had psychic insight into my employment future.

This year my wife was, once again, a target. Aside from her statement gifts (like my resume book), Debbie likes to buy odd gifts as well. She must enjoy watching others as they strain to figure out what exactly an item is. This years enigma was a two foot tall ceramic object that looked like a cross between a flower pot, a pizza serving platter and hockey's Stanley Cup Trophy. I half expected my wife to strap on her skates and lap the rink, holding this think over her head. My father-in-law though it looked like a satellite dish and I guessed that it was an indoor bird bath, but none of us could be sure. My son suggested that we all wash our feet in it, which sounded like a pretty good idea.

Whatever it was, it sure was a topic of conversation. I kept the box it came in hoping to re-wrap it and give it back to Debbie for her birthday. Won't she be happy.

Hard Times Hanukah

About an hour and a half drive from my home lies a small wooden framed house with an historic past. Now housing the "Walton Mountain Museum", the house was once home to the real John Boy and the rest of the Walton clan. If you were alive in the 1970's or watch any of the retro TV channels, you know of this poor, close knit family who struggled through the Great Depression with a gritty determination and unwavering ethics.

Last week I overheard some co-workers reminiscing about "Walton-like" Christmas's when times were tough for their families and gifts were sparse and often home-made. Everyone was very respectful of each others stories and listened intently as the heart-warming tales unwound. As I listened to these holiday anecdotes I thought "Why don't I have any tear-rendering Hanukah stories?" There are many reasons for this, which are addressed in the text below.

1. Scheduling

Maybe it's me, but Hanukah seems to be around the December time frame but never on the same days from year to year. Do they spin a big wheel in Tel Aviv every year to determine the exact dates for Jewish holidays? Each year someone at work stops me in the hall and wishes me a "Happy Hanukah" much to my surprise. I never know when it is, I have to hear about it from a gentile who has spotted it on his Garfield calendar that morning. Lets make a real date and stick to it. While we are at it let's settle on a spelling as well. One word meaning the same thing should not have multiple spelling options. It's confusing to me, much less the goyem.

2. The Eight Day Myth

Non-Jews in the South are under the mistaken impression that Jewish children receive a lavish gift each and every day during the Festival of Lights, a myth perpetuate as often as asked. "Yeah, when I was eight I got a solid gold calf on the first day and Corvette filled with hookers on the second day." However, I am thinking of about taking the Walton road on the next go around. Something like "The first day I got a brand new sock and on the second day I got the other sock." I need to contribute something to the discussion in the hallway outside of my door don't I?

3. Time honored One-Ups-manship

Jewish people, in general, struggle when listening to another person's hard luck story. Many (and I include myself) are simply waiting for the tale-spinner to draw a quick breath so they can cut in with their even more horrible story. My mother and her friends were experts in this field. Once, I witnessed a group of Mom's cronies top each other on ambulance experiences. Each story stretched the bounds of the human imagination and each account was more excessive than the last. How can I join in on the discussion when I am ethnically compelled to dominate the forum with with yarns which are specifically designed to minimize any and all stories previously told?

4. Limited Memory

For the life of me, I cannot remember a specific Hanukah in my life. Years melt into years like some over-worked shamus. I remember getting socks, pants, toys and a stereo one year, but nothing more than that. I wonder if my sisters have any Hanukah memories?

Has anyone out there had a Walton's-like Hanukah? Maybe you made a dreidel out of some hardened matzoah balls or your dad fired up the boiler for eight days in a rare moment of Hanukah spirit. Did Judah Maccabi visit your home with a bag full of pants that were one size too big, hoping that you would grow into them?

I am in need of Hanukah memories and I don't mind stealing from others.

No Joy in Dadsville

Every December my son and I sojourn to the hills of Southwestern Virginia in search of baseball magic. Amidst the cattle pastures and hidden stills, sits a baseball/softball warehouse filled with treasures beyond the dreams of a 14 year old baseball fanatic. Attached to this wondrous palace of pitching machines is a retail showroom, stacked with everything baseball. This is my son's favorite spot on the map.

Will is barely able to contain his excitement as we ramble along the highway, giddy with the thought that somewhere in that warehouse lies the excalibur of Easton's, the "Holy Flail" of bats.

The moment we enter the store, employees scatter towards their desks, like some warehouse musical chairs game, hoping that they will not have to be the sorry salesperson who has to wait on us. It is immediately obvious to me that the employees of this establishment recognize my son Will on sight. Will is a high maintenance customer in much the same way, I imagine, as Zsa Zsa Gabor would be when she goes frock shopping in Beverly Hills. These poor people know that they will be wearing out the carpet from the showroom to their warehouse, dragging out every bat, bag and spiked shoe in their massive inventory.

Will decides to start with three bats from three different manufacturers. Like a connoisseur of fine wines he samples each bat, swinging from both side of the dish (his jacket on the floor of the showroom representing home plate). He then holds a bat in each hand weighing them against each other. He repeats the weighing process with all three bats, two at a time.

Will remarks "Dad, those were nice but I need to see some more models before I make my final decision". The salesperson and I exchange sympathetic eye rolls and press on.

In total, fourteen bats were weighed, swung and tested. Our exhausted salesperson remains smiling and helpful throughout. Finally, we were down to the final cut and some of the telemarketing people have emerged from their desk areas to witness this historic sales moment. A crowd of a dozen or more people gather as Will takes his final test cuts. White smoke billows from the ventilation ducts high atop the warehouse. The moment of truth has arrived!

A audible gasp can be heard from the crowd as an Easton Stealth thirty three inch and thirty ounce beauty is trust to the sky in triumph!

'This bat shall be mine" cried Will, and the people smiled with approval.

The salesperson fell to the ground, thankful that the worst was over, only to feel something poking in the small of her back.

'Hey, lady, get up" said Will "I need to look at some catcher's bags too".

Hours later we exited the store with several hundred dollars in merchandise. The showroom closed early that day so that the "I waited on Will" support group could meet and welcome its newest member.

It was not only an exhausting day for me, but an expensive one as well.

Somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. A band is playing somewhere and someone's wallet is light. And somewhere my son is laughing and I can hear my junior shout, "There is no joy in Dadsville, that's what Christmas is all about".