Christmas Shopping at the Mall of Hell

I’m a sap. I scour the grocery store shelves for the best deals possible, looking closely at the price per unit to get the very best price, even though I end up emptying my purse at the cash register because I bought 80 pounds of kitty litter at .015 cents cheaper per ounce. As good or bad (I still haven’t figured that out) as that may be I pulled the ultimate boner recently while Christmas Shopping.

Wandering through the halls in Stonestown Mall, where the denizens of merchandizing lurk with the ubiquitous carts full of cell phone accessories, flying toy helicopters, and scented jewelry, I suddenly found myself wrapped in a hot, bulky shoulder warmer.

“Doesn’t that feel good?” the young (and yes, he was sexy—vaguely Italian accented) salesman asked. He massaged my upper neck and back through the wrap with hard, experienced fingers as he maneuvered me to his lair.

“Mmmm,” I responded with a crooked smile covering my face. No steely-eyed shopper this; I might as well have handed him my purse and all the account codes to my credit cards. “A minute in the microwave and they stay warm for almost an hour,” he says. I smile wider, trying to please him. After all, it is the Christmas season. Let’s all be happy and gay.

Okay, I think to myself. Traci would love this for her back. As soon as I think this I look up at the smiling face and wonder if Mr. Italian-Wonderful heard my thoughts. He reaches into the microwave and pulls out another pillow—longer and with a Velcro strap—and fastens it to my lower back. It’s hot in the mall and I’m wearing a light jacket. Sweat breaks out under my breasts and around my tummy. How many of these things has he got?

Tons—and to my delight they come in full sets including eye compresses, and ultra-fragrant pillow thingys (with 12 natural herbs) that will negate the need for aspirin or cold medications ever again. “I’ll take one,” I say. I never asked the price. I was too embarrassed. How much could it be? Thirty-five, forty dollars?

I’m relieved as he takes my card and starts wrapping it up. But he pulls another off the shelf. “Now that you are a valued customer, you are entitled to a discount. The next one is half-price.” I think of my dad in the Veteran’s Home with his 88 year-old back and think this would be good for him. “Okay, I’ll take another.” I point at the set of black, masculine looking ones, satisfied that my Christmas shopping is going so well.

Mr. Italy (is his accent and swagger more pronounced?) deftly lifts it into my bag. I’m relieved to be done. I want to get out of there. I rip the blue backpack and shoulder wrap off me—yes, they’ve been there the whole time for other shoppers passing in the crowded hall to lament my situation—I reach for my purchase. “Here’s where the real deals begin.”

Now I can buy two more, the third for full-price and the forth free. I'm getting confused and I don’t even know how much they are. “$129.00 each,” he says as if it is a steal at twice the price.” I feel my cheeks flush and I begin to calculate the price per unit as I think of who I can unload these on. It won’t be so bad if I buy enough of them. “Okay?” I say, more a plea for him to stop. Please let me out of here. I look at the passing shoppers happily strolling by with bags from Macy’s, Marshals, and Victoria’s Secret. Help me. They ignore my silent cry for help and leave me to my fate.

“You need the slippers.” “You have slippers?” I ask. He pulls out the little heater pads from slits in the bottom of one of them. “No, they’ll make your feet sweat.” I think I’ve finally won a small battle. “The herbs absorb any moisture. Your feet will never be drier or more toasty on cold nights.” “How much?” “For you—”

Eons later I am finally at the car. I dump my purchases into the back of my PT Cruiser. It settles a little under the weight. It will cost a fortune to ship these. I slam the hatch and get into Peety (Yes, I name my cars). I pull out the receipt—to torture myself. $401.50. But at least they were a bargain if you consider the per-unit cost.