Have Yourself a Very Ugly Christmas- Part 2: Attack of the Christmas Music

Now this is a story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside down. And I'd like to take a minute just sit right there and I'll tell you how I became the princess of why the hell are we open till midnight?

Holiday hours are in full swing and I've had far too much time to be alone with the holiday tunes. Yes, alone as in not a customer in sight and tumbleweeds made of fallen sequins and dust bunnies because who in their right mind would be interested in shopping at the hellhole after 10 pm... it's scary enough in the daytime. Since there are no crickets to emphasize how alone the associates actually are after dark, the cheery holiday music seems to amplify and I've had far too much time to think about their true meaning. The dark truth is they're not so cheery after all. A customer told me that "Baby, It's Cold Outside" (which the store plays at least 20 times a day) is her favorite Christmas song. First, nowhere in this tune does it state that it is Christmas, it is simply "cold outside." The song could be set in the Twilight Zone where the earth is moving out of its orbit and away from the sun for all the listener knows. Second, is it me or is there the implication of date rape in this merry winter melody? Nothing spells Christmas like roofinol in your eggnog.

I'd have to say one of my favorite Christmas songs is the one where the kids build a human effigy out of snow and it comes to life with the help of a magical top hat. Then they begin to wreak havoc and terrify the town. Sign me up to work on that horror movie. Oh it's a children's cartoon? You're shitting me. Does no one else see the terror in this except for the creators of Jack Frost (the horror movie)? Bottom line is snow should not be sentient unless it is channeling Michael Keaton.

Don't be a drag, just be a Dairy Queen

I found out recently that my mom doesn't like my kind. It's not fair to discriminate, Lady Gaga would say we're born this way. People who just can't control their urges and they just keep going, wanting more and more. And if we can't have it, we just start twitching like we're tweaking out, in need of a good fix. Apparently there's a lady that she works with who is like me. But her drug of choice is Reeses. While those are good, I've never delved into how many pounds of the chocolate peanut buttery goodness I can eat in one sitting. However, I'm good for about a pound and a half of Twizzlers... and only a few of those were made into straws.

Abs of steel? Please, I'd rather have a stomach of steel, able to finish Ritas Italian ice or a delicious milkshake in mere seconds. Capable of handling 8+ bowls of Olive Garden soup (my friends made me leave). I see the words "all you can eat" and I readily accept the challenge. Endless soup, salad and breadsticks? Bring it on! And I will not give in to your smaller bowls of soup or one breadstick per person after the first round trickery. You might as well cut your losses and fill up my bowl the entire way up with delicious soup and bring me an entire pan of breadsticks. Apparently my passion for eating is starting to show.

Recently I was helping a customer out in the athletic wear department. She asked me where the "microfiber" pants were. I've heard of "microfiber" before, but never really knew what it was because after a few horrifying incidents with spandex and a Richard Simmons video, anything remotely related to "working out" terrifies me. So I asked if the customer could explain "microfiber" to me because I'm not familiar with the athletic department. Her response? "Well, obviously." Although, a friend did point out she could have just been implying that I'm an idiot, not calling me rotund. However, I'd rather be called fat because at least I earned that title fair and square... well, fair and round?

My Own Personal American Horror Story

T'is the season to make millions of Christmas cookies in order to supplement my income and to buy my loved ones Christmas gifts that don't consist of a piece of paper stating, "IOU One gold bar when I become rich and famous" or whatever I can find laying around my room to regift. Yes, sir, I am pretty much an escapee of the Martha Stewart cooking school. So I have spent the past two days at my loving parents' house or as I like to call it, my own personal American Horror Story.

Give me the murder house any day. I ain't afraid of no ghost. The Leonard household with mere weeks to go before Christmas, however, is a different story. My next visit, I am planning to bring some Midol in hopes to control my father's mood swings and getting angry at the most trivial things. And I should probably just figure out where to get some horse tranquilizers for my mom. Unfortunately, I'd lose my baking buddy that way, but I wouldn't have to hear the same overly caffeinated story from the lady zip zooming around the kitchen leaving a trail of flour along the way. A trivial thing my father gets angry over? Trails of flour in the kitchen... which he doesn't really even use. I know it doesn't sound too horrifying yet, but did I mention my mother is once again addicted to the made for menopause TV movies on the Hallmark channel? And Sidney Crosby is out indefinitely. Again. I had to hear about that... from both the cougar and the angry one. On the plus side, I did find a rocking horse cookie cutter. Coming this Christmas to the Leonard household- the four rocking horses of the apocalypse! Perfect for ringing in 2012

I did get to go pick out the family Christmas tree though... It was a lot like that scene from Christmas Vacation, but take out the fun. And add this...

Holy backseat driver, Batman!

My mother keeps it in her backseat. I guess she wants Jesus, Mary and Joseph to take the wheel? I didn't want to get too close in fear of being struck by lightning and my eyes being burned out of my head, I saw that X-Files episode. However, the thing is truly horrifying. There's a Jesus one too, which was even creepier, but I made her leave it on the lawn so I could sit without genuflecting first.

After about an hour at the tree lot, we finally found the perfect one... or at least one that will do since it was dark by the time we left. And the ground was nicely aerated thanks to my boots. That's right, I was wearing heeled boots in mud to pick out a Christmas tree. I'm on my way to becoming a real girl!

Dance of the Sugar Plum Customer

Today, one of my worst Christmas nightmares came true. And I don't mean the axe-murdering Santa Claus from Tales from the Crypt. No, this creature was much, much worse. I saw it out of the corner of my eye while waiting on a customer. I was too scared to look directly at it, not sure if I would scare it, embarrass it, or just encourage it. I took customer after customer and it just kept getting closer and closer till it was finally at my register. To my absolute horror, it did not quantum lock when I looked at it and continued on its terrifying dance. Yes, dance. As in of the sugar plump (not a typo, she was on the larger side) fairy. A customer was dancing to Christmas music right in front of me. And encouraging me to join her, exclaiming, "How could you not dance to this all day?" Aw, well, I used to, but I broke myself doing the fork in the garbage disposal and now they make me wear cement shoes.

A few hours later, what I thought to be a kindred spirit came to my register. "I hate this music," she stated. My day immediately brightened, finally, a fellow Ebenezer to share my cynicism. "I know," I replied, "Me too. I can't wait till January." The customer's eyes narrowed into a seething glare, "No," she snarled, "I don't like this kind of Christmas music." Yes, techno club remixes of "Rudolph" are somewhat strange, but I will hold my ground with N'Sync's Christmas album being a classic. It's bad when you're praying for N'Sync to come blaring through the store speakers. I even hear Justin Beiber has a new Christmas album. Giving customers Beiber fever is a risk I would be willing to take. At least it would be a little more upbeat than Satan's children singing a round of the top ten most depressing Christmas songs followed by Josh Groban hitting my brain like a tranquilizer dart telling it to "sleeeeep, sleeeeeeep" while all the cougars in the store begin swooning. I would like to personally put out a hit on this man for aiding the torture of MC Nickels associates. However, if you do find him, bring him to me first so I can use my Josh Groban pick up line, (said in my sultry, seductive voice only slightly reminiscent of a drag queen,) "Hey, Josh Groban, I'll raise you up."... wink.

Raiders of the Lost Sweatsuits

Ah, Christmas time. A time to gather together with loved ones.... or with the local swamp things and zombie folk, just praying for the end of your shift to come so you can go home and sit by your lonesome, marathoning the nerdy show of the week. Which I am completely and totally fine with. I mean, that's totally not referring to me. I have a happening social life.... it just happens to involve fictional characters... still trying to figure out exactly how sad this is.

The Christmas rush should be in full swing, but it has been unseasonably quiet. And I'm not complaining. I even had two customers who absolutely adored me this weekend. But in every silver lining, there is a cloud. And this cloud consisted of two customers I got roped in to helping (thanks, n00b!). These two lovely ladies were on an epic game of "Where's Waldo" for the thing they most desired and they were willing to Amazing Race it to the ends of the earth to obtain this precious item. What could this Holy Grail of women's clothing be? Sweatpants. Well, sweat outfits to be exact. Basically the same ones that can be purchased at any department store, Wal Mart, Target, drug stores and select supermarkets. The younger adventurer made us look not only on the website, but to search stores within 150 miles to try to find these sweatpants for her elderly counterpart. When we told her that these rare pieces of attire are sold out at every possible location, she demanded to speak to someone who would be able to obtain these unusual artifacts for her. The overly dramatic attitude finally became clear when the young Indiana Jones of sweatpants told the catalogue department worker, "I've been driving around with my (seething tone) mother in law all day." And check in the "I'm OK with being a lonely nerd" column.

After these customers left, I ran straight to the fitting room, but was almost run over by a stroller. I dodged the oncoming baby-mobile just in time, but did not get a good look at the occupant. Leaving the fitting room, I realized that I was almost the victim of a hit and run with a doggy stroller... complete with doggy inside and tupperware container of treats in the back, reminiscent of a baby's Cheerio container. We'll count this as a check in the "Maybe I should get a life" column.

Driving home from the hell hole, I was in a decent mood... mostly because of the pretty damn mild temperature for December. I could even drive with the windows down... and blasting "Wannabe" by the Spice Girls and serenading the nice folk leaving the mall, complete with attempting to change my voice for each girl of the spice variety. Hey, most of those people make my life a living hell for 8 hours a day, I can torture them for a few minutes. Check in the "lonely nerd is a-ok" column. Then, "Someone like You" came on, which I dare not try to sing along to. This was not the "zig-a-zig-ah" I was looking for and I did not even have my favorite men, Ben and Jerry to cry to... well, into. Still trying to figure out which column to check...