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I’m in the writing chair today, wearing a different hat. I think since my blog is simply going to be me talking to you as though we’re sitting in the living room, sipping whatever it is you decide to drink, my blogging hat will be a bit of frou-frou. Nothing too serious, something you kind of want to plop on your head and have a laugh at if you look in the mirror. So, wander in, tell me if you’d like a coffee, laced with whatever type of cream or creamer you prefer, tea, with the same selection, or wahn. Wahn is the southern pronunciation of wine for those who don’t live in the south and commonly hear wahn and ahce (ice) pronounced this way. It’s definitely an acquired taste, this southern language of ours, but I don’t see it changing anytime soon. As Mammy said in Gone with the Wind, “It just wouldn’t be fittin’!”
Today, I thought I’d share a few experiences from the Christmas season. I’ve decided, as you age, the season takes on a different persona; at least it has for me. So, off we go, to the mall, a place I used to frequent often, usually with a close friend.
Said friend and I used to go to what is now Macy’s, which used to be known as Foley’s, and stroll the aisles. No matter what type of week we’d had on the job, when my friend and I opened the doors to Foley’s we were engulfed by the scent of retail. And so the therapy began for us, filled with sights to ogle, shoes to try on, jewelry to oooh and ahhh over, followed by fits of laughter. We tried to keep the guffawing to a minimum, but usually, it overtook us, forcing us to hang onto display racks, legs crossed (women of a certain age will understand this completely) as we tried to duck-waddle to the ladies restroom. We always made it in time, but I often wonder how. We spent many hours running to the ladies room over the years and I never look at one to this day without smiling. I know, odd reflection to turn into a memory, but there you have it, our subconscious doesn’t seem to screen our data input.
I went alone to the mall this year, the friend is still working and I decided to sally-forth, on a weekday, hoping to miss the crowds. I had a particular purse in mind, one of those designer jobs, the kind you save up for. I’d finally saved enough, and received just enough birthday money to snag one if they were on sale…and the sale was cutthroat enough. So off I went.
I sampled the air as I opened the doors to the Mecca of Macy’s and went straight to the purses. Now this in itself is an accomplishment. Perusing aisles is one of my greatest delights, but I had come dressed for bear this time, and the purse aisles were locked and loaded.
I wandered, up and down the aisles, looking at the three particular designers my heart had glommed onto. Back and forth I went…looking for that ultimate deal. And then it happened. My blood sugar dropped. I’m a diabetic and know all the wonderful little impish symptoms well. I opened my purse, dug deep into the Bermuda Triangle (Sam, the heroine in my story, Dark Pleasures, was the first to name the lost hole inside a gal’s purse, the Bermuda Triangle.) inside the bag and low and behold, the Triangle had swallowed up my stash of things to help thrust my sugar skyward. By this time, I’m frustrated as well as light headed. Every shopper out there knows you never leave the shopping spree without your bagged limit. (No pun intended).
I stared at the eye-candy displayed all around me, thinking, how do you find something to pull your sugar up in Macy’s? I was devastated. And then, miracle of miracles, near one of the registers was that delicious temptation known to all female chocoholics by name. It is the Goddess of chocolate that seduces, the one with the gorgeous name that surely the God’s bestowed…Godiva.
Godiva’s! My heart danced and my feet picked up speed. Over to the register I went, snagged a bar and then froze. Oh no, Godiva doesn’t come cheap and I only had enough cash on me to purchase the purse. And I simply refused to put a Godiva on my charge card. My head tilted, not from delight, but the low blood sugar. Sighing, I laid the Godiva on the counter and pulled the money from my wad of cash.
After the sales person rang me up, I couldn’t decide where to eat this magnificent delight. I mean, you don’t stroll through Macy’s with an open Godiva in your hand. I’m sure you’d be frisked to keep you from sullying the merchandise. And then I saw it. The sign that led down my hall of memories. The Women’s Restroom.
All but running down the aisles, I went to my place of the past, launched myself through the door and flung myself down on one of the comfy chairs in the waiting area.
As I nibbled the Godiva, enjoying every inch of it, I laughed. God help the security crew if they’re watching. Nothing “iffy” going on here, just some middle-aged woman getting a rush from a Godiva. Who knows, they may have laughed themselves, especially if there were any of the old crew who used to watch me and my friend walking with knees knotted, roaring laughter as we searched desperately for an empty stall. You never know…if they ever connect the footage, I could wind up on YouTube. Heck, maybe I should consider visiting again, that type of promo would surely drive traffic to your website.
Anyway, to tie up the loose ends, I left Macy’s on a chocolate high. No purse in hand, I couldn’t find the exact one. But I did have the chocoholic fix to sustain me. So, I aimed the car down the street, the next retail therapy store in my sites.
And for those who need a happy ending, I did find the purse. The purse and I have become one over the Holidays and know each other well. Well enough that I confidently hide my Godiva inside its Bermuda Triangle. You can bet if it disappears in this one, I’m goin’ in. There’s no way anything else is laying claim to that Goddess of chocolate. That’s for me and the ladies room…or maybe You Tube…I might be tempted to share it with a You Tube spot 🙂
If you would like to read ‘Christmas On The Strand’ please click on the cover.
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