BLACK FRIDAY, CAMP-OUTS & THE WALKING DEAD

        Did you ever do a Black Friday camp-out?

I did.

Stij decided that our four-foot flat screen TV just wasn’t quite big enough.  He absolutely had to have one of the brand new eight-foot TVs, I suppose because he’s planning a trip to the moon in the near future, and wants to be able to see re-runs of The Honeymooners from the Sea of Tranquility without dragging the set along.

Okay.  It’s the only thing he’s asked for this year—well, no, that’s not quite true.  He also asked that I not cook Christmas dinner, but that kind of goes without saying.

One of the big box stores was having a Black Friday special on these contraptions at an 80% discount.  And, of course, there were only four available at that price.

I resolved to be first in line, so Wednesday morning, I packed up my tent, sleeping bag, lantern, sandwiches, and a couple of books, and headed over to the store.

Evidently, I wasn’t the only forward-thinking person in town.

As a matter of fact, it looked like the whole town was already there.

There were tents everywhere.  I had no hope of being the first one in the door.  I’d be lucky if I were the 200^th person in the door.

But I couldn’t let Stij down!

I set up my tent on the horizon line, and brooded.  There wasn’t much point in doing this for the next two days if I couldn’t get what I came for. 

So what to do?

My writer’s brain kicked into overdrive.

What could get me to the front of the line?

I stared glumly at the store I was camped out in front of, and it came to me!  I dashed inside, purchased what I needed, then packed up my tent, dashed to my car and went home.

“That was quick,” Stij said.  “I thought you were having a Black Friday camping adventure.”

“Nope.  I’m going to drive over about an hour before they open the doors on Friday morning.”

He sighed.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” I said.  “You’ll see.  I’ve got a plan.”

“Does it involve cooking?”

“Nope.”

“Well, thank God for that, anyway.”

I arose Friday at 4:00AM, spent about two hours in the bathroom, the quietly left the house.  At the store, I parked my car, and made my way forward.

People toward the front of the line were a little stroppy about my attempt to get past them, and they turned to tell me so.

The words died on their lips.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.  “But I’m terribly ill.”

Horror suffused their features.  “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s a rare form of leprosy…contagious, I think, if I sneeze…ah…ah…ah…ahchhhhh......”

I cleared out those campers faster than Clint Eastwood singing opera.

The store I’d stopped into was a party shop, you see.  I'd bought some theatrical make-up and liquid latex, and the rest is history.

The problem was that, before I could wipe it off, store security called an ambulance, and I was hustled off to the Emergency Room before I could make my purchase.

So, poor Stij isn’t getting his eight-foot flat-screen this year; however, he will still be able to watch me on our old TV.

I got offered a part in Walking Dead—The Movie.

EVERY TOY IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE

         I must confess that I’m in complete awe of toy stores.  I mean, have you been inside of one of those places recently? 

Well, yes, of course you have.  T’is the season, after all.

In the first place, they aren’t just “stores” or “shops” or even “shoppes” anymore.  Gone is dear Giapetto, the maker of toys by hand.  Gone is also the appreciation of toys made by hand.  What we have now are behemoth toy warehouses, taking up enough arable land to feed the entire country of China…twice, and pushing enough plastic to give every female in Los Angeles the boob size of her choice.

Inside, you will feel as insignificant as Stuart Little in the Grand Canyon.  There are hundreds of aisles, with shelves running from floor to ceiling…and the ceilings are 40 feet high. 

These stores have their own weather systems.

I happened to stop into one of these places a few days ago . . . EVERY TOY IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE, I think it was called.  At any rate, I had finished all my Christmas shopping, with the exception of Amanda, my niece, and she had mentioned a Barbie doll, so ETITKU seemed like the place to go.

I stopped the first employee I could find with the fewest body piercings and nihilist tattoos, and asked to be directed to the Barbie dolls.

“Aisles three, four, and five,” he muttered disgustedly.  Apparently I had roused him from his coma and he didn’t appreciate it.

“Three aisles for Barbie dolls?” I mused.  I took that to mean that they had their entire stock on the shelves, so I wasn’t worried about finding exactly what I wanted.  I set out, ebulliently, with a spring in my step, for aisles three, four, and five.

After walking for one hour, stopping once to use the restroom (conveniently located every half-mile), and once to buy water, I arrived at my destination and began browsing.

I want to tell you that I had no idea that there were so many different kinds of Barbie dolls.  It was inconceivable to me that there could be thousands of variations on a single theme (well, no, I take that back—Bach did just fine with it).

The first thing I did was to pull out my cell phone and call my husband to tell him not to expect me for dinner…this week.  Then I continued my quest.

Initially, there were the types of Barbies you’d expect to find:  Beach Barbie, Cheerleader Barbie, Tennis Barbie, Golf Barbie, Rock Concert Barbie…well, you get the idea.

Then there were the “Career” Barbies.  These included Doctor Barbie, Dentist Barbie, Psychoanalyst Barbie, Lawyer Barbie (I didn’t like that one at all!), Detective Barbie, Wall Street Barbie, and Super-Bitch Corporate Executive Vice President Barbie.  That last one came with a “corporate spy” briefcase (which included a tiny videocam), a cigar that shoots poison-tipped darts, an empty gin bottle, and a full ashtray.

Next there were the “Politically Correct” Barbies.  There were African-American Barbies, Asian-American Barbies, Native American Barbies, Semitic-American Barbies, and an Australian-American Barbie with a dwarf husband called “Shrimp on the Barbie.”

Head reeling, I stumbled next upon the “Outmoded Values” Barbies.  These were all covered with the dust of the ages, and a small sign read that if I found any dinosaur bones while browsing here, I could keep them.  Amongst these Barbies, I found:  Homemaker Barbie, PTA Barbie, Stay-at-Home Mother Barbie, Carpool Barbie, Seamstress Barbie, Dinner Party Barbie, and Reading to the Kids Barbie.  There was only one of each, obviously untouched for many years.

After that, it really got strange.

I moved into aisle five.  It was completely stocked with “New Millennium” Barbies, reflecting the current ideology that young children should be exposed to absolutely everything.  There was Dominatrix Barbie (only one left—more on the way!), Drunk Biker Chick Barbie (complete with tattoos, a Harley, and a boyfriend called Slash who was just released from prison), Death During Childbirth Barbie (I don’t even want to think about what that one comes with), Arsonist Barbie (with a whole box of lovely matches that really light!  Wow!), Serial Killer Barbie (with knives, rope, and a bottle of real poison.  An accessory, sold separately, is a policeman looking confused), Vampire Barbie (with a pink Bloodmobile), Bar-Hopping Barbie (with Rohypnol antidote), Hooker Barbie (with condoms, penicillin, and Pimp Ken), Drug Dealer Barbie (with marijuana seeds and potting soil), and finally, Transsexual Barbie (anatomically incorrect, with a copy of The Rene Richards Story). 

There was even a Klaus Barbie…

That did it.

I raced back to aisle four, grabbed the Homemaker Barbie and her complete wardrobe of Donna Reed originals, pearl necklace, rubber gloves and Easy-Off, and bursting though the cloud of dust, threw a handful of money at the cashier and ran out the door!

Amanda had better like this Barbie doll.

There is no way in hell I’m ever going back there to return it.