We did some last minute shopping this past weekend on Saturday morning, trying to get out early to beat the peak crowds. Our plan worked, somewhat, and we were able to secure the last parking space on the very top of the parking deck at the mall downtown between a crooked '92 Buick LeSabre with a Florida license plate and a Hummer. The christmas carolers and the salvation army bell ringers were having a little east coast/west coast rap "spirit-off" outside of the Old Navy. I think the carolers were winning because their harmonized rendition of O Holy Night was easily drowning out the bell ringer, despite his best double-fisted efforts...he was even beating the bell against the red kettle at one point, but could still not overpower the choir.
I only had one of the most difficult people left to buy for, my grandpa. Being an old man, he has collected more than his share of golf paraphernalia, Brookstone gadgets, and pink flamingos for his winter Florida home over the years. So, logically, the only thing left to get for him was a Hawaiian shirt. Perhaps even something with half-naked hula ladies so he could be the envy of his Tuesday night domino club. Unfortunately, a Vermont mall in the height of Christmas season is NOT the time to buy a Hawaiian shirt. Sweaters, turtlenecks, and flannel pajamas are pretty much the only things on the menu at Macy’s in the men’s department these days. I thought maybe some of the younger stores would have a Hawaiian shirt, perhaps Pac Sun, American Eagle, or the like. I was wrong. The kids are not wearing the Hawaiian shirts these days. And Pac Sun? Neither “pacific” nor “sunny”.
There was a new store in the mall we passed that at first glance might have been a Chili’s restaurant. The windows were dark, the entrance had an adorable little adobe tile roof over it, and there were chairs and an end table in the entry area. Always up for a Presidente margarita, we decided to check it out, unaware that we were about to get “the Hollister experience”. For those of you who don’t know, Hollister is a clothing store with the same sloppy-college-kid fashion as an Abercrombie & Fitch or an American Eagle, but their spin is “California surfer”, which I deduced upon entering the store to the loud, base-pumping cool-guy music peppered with seagull cries and crashing waves. We were approached by head-set wearing doublemint twins who asked us if they could, like, help us find anything or maybe fold a t-shirt for us. Glancing around the dimly lit store, I didn't see anything remotely floral patterned, or even anything a man over 25 could wear without looking like a street bum. Surfers wear Hawaiian shirts, right? Wrong. They apparently wear their small t-shirts around their necks so their nipples show and scrunchy jeans with holes in the knees so it looks like they actually know how to skateboard. Had I watched The Endless Summer II instead of the original last weekend, I might have known this.
Alas, I did not find the perfect grandpa gift this weekend, but I will be in Florida next week where there will be tons of stuff to buy that old people love. In the 11th hour Friday afternoon I did manage to mumble to my boss that I might like to take some unpaid time off to be with family over Christmas, but if I was needed at work I would be more than happy to stay and perhaps even put in some extra hours on Christmas day. Since I work at such a great office, he is allowing me to have the time off. Now I get to spend 24 hours, each way, in a car before and after Christmas, which will be a story for another day.
