I Love Christmas Shopping

“Neither fortune nor position can shut out the awareness that the possessor lacks so much else,” said Huston Smith.  He probably said this while in a shopping mall, or at least this his how I feel when I walk through stores about this time.

My best strategy is to avoid the mall.  As long as I stay home, I’m happy with my wardrobe, my gadgets and my homemade coffee (really, I can make better coffee than Starbucks).  But it’s December, and I must risk wandering into that den of thieves in hopes of leaving with a few holiday gifts for my loved ones.

I Love Christmas Shopping

I genuinely love Christmas shopping.  It is the most guilt free of spending sprees because, unlike my usual selfish mall excursions, it is all in the name of generosity.  There is, however, the issue of funds.  This winter finances have been tight, and initially I was in despair about how I’d be able to afford gifts.  I took this in prayer to Jesus, and he gave me two answers: work overtime and sell stuff.

In a year of an insane production schedule, this has been the maddest two months at the factory.  Getting overtime was easy.  Meanwhile, my Varage Sale app got a workout as I sold everything that wasn’t tied down: clothes that are too big now, paintings, a set of books.  I have some bankroll to play with now.  I shop sales and get creative.

Christmas Sacrifices

The concept of sacrifice has become more real to me as I’ve prepared for Christmas.  A sacrifice is “an act of giving up something valued for the sake of something else regarded as more important or worthy” (New Oxford American Dictionary).  That is my reality as I shop.

My first sacrifice was to sell a set of books that I actually wanted to keep.  I knew they’d sell, and they were gone in a few hours.  The second sacrifice was working a Saturday when I was already exhausted from a busy week.  This week I also worked instead of sleeping, or going for a midweek run.

This is likely no more than many parents make for their kids on a daily basis.  But these small sacrifices prove gifts are a lot more than just the object: behind them is a sacrifice of money, the time that it took to earn that money, the time and gas money it took to go to the mall and pick it out, and also the loving thought that made them choose it for you.  I’m not trying to make a martyr of myself here, but rather to put that image in our minds when someone puts a gift in our hands.

The idea of sacrifice makes the gifts seem lavish, whatever their size.

Dangerous Shopping

Christmas shopping can be beautiful, but there is a dark side that I see in myself, and in Canadian culture as a whole. Have you seen those TV adds where they urge “get this for yourself?”  You deserve a new tablet, a new outfit, a new minivan (who buys a minivan as a gift?!).

I admit that I see fifty things I want for every five gift ideas I spot.  Today it was the espresso maker that I eyed up at Canadian Tire (which, for my international friends, sells a great deal more than tires), and the hat at the clothing store.  I bought neither.  Yay me.  Other times I haven’t been so self-controlled.  I remember remarking last year, “It seems my shopping trip is incomplete if I don’t find something for myself,” even in it’s just an Americano from Starbucks.  It’s downright disturbing how generous I am to myself–far more generous than I am to my family.

This idea of ‘self-gifting’ could suck the life right out of Christmas giving.  It takes this act of generosity and spins it right back to selfishness.

It’s not about me.  It’s not about me. It’s not about me.

As I peruse the shining shelves of the mall, I keep repeating to myself, “It’s not about me.  I’m not shopping for me.”

Which is not to say that come Boxing Day I won’t be back in the store shopping the sales for myself.

But for now I get heady doses of enjoyment out stashing shopping bags in my closet, buying scotch tape and gift boxes, and anticipating Christmas morning when my family will get the treasures I picked for them.  Each box and bag represents something I gave up for them.  I hope it reminds me of the ultimate Christmas generosity: Jesus gave up the luxury and acclaim of heaven so he could be Emmanuel, ‘God with us.’

Enjoy your Christmas shopping. 🙂

 

Mother’s Day is from Venus

“He says, ‘You’re not my mother,’” she said as I rang up her stack of clothes. That was why she was buying her own Mother’s Day gift. Her husband wasn’t going to be buying one.

Her kids, well, I dunno.

That was just the first. I kept hearing it: “I’m going to go buy some flowers, since my husband won’t be.” “I’m buying my own Mother’s Day gift.” Etcetera.

Granted, these were far outweighed by the daughters buying clothes for their moms, the little girl with the long blond hair, who came running in to pick out a necklace with her daddy, and the sheepish husbands buying gift cards, who’d never be caught dead in a women’s clothing store for any other occasion (except Christmas, when they come in droves—sheepish droves).

But I found the whole scenario rather pathetic.

Some Men Have Dropped the Ball, Here

I’d never say that all men MUST buy their wives Mother’s Day presents. You’ve got to take budget into account, and specifically, the love-language of the wife. Not everyone receives, or gives love the same way. Some prefer quality time, acts of service, physical affection or affirming words over gifts.

So if gifts aren’t her thing, well, they aren’t her thing.

But clearly these ladies would have enjoyed a gift, so…

Fail.

Women Are Lousy Communicators

I’m tempted to say that the men are at fault. I mean, if they just knew their wives, they would have known she wanted a gift.

Give them a break.  I’m not very old, but I’ve already learned that it doesn’t work that way.

I’ve stood in the kitchen with my brother and my Mom said, “This needs to go downstairs.” I heard “please take this downstairs,” and my brother heard “this needs to go downstairs.”

I carried it downstairs.

I’ve been thoroughly pissed, ready to cheerfully wring someone’s neck. And my male boss and coworkers never picked up on the steam coming from my ears. But at least they didn’t ask me why I was crying… or maybe they just didn’t notice.

They don’t know, okay? (As a qualifier, I’m not a man, and I could be wrong. Correct me if I am).

Women are LOUSY at communicating expectations.  I actually am a woman, so I think I can say this with some certainty.  We speak in subtexts and hints and only one in ten is ever picked up.  But, like Einstein’s definition of insanity, we keep on trying the same thing over and over, expecting different results.

Still, the guy who told his wife “you’re not my mother” passed up on a simple opportunity to make his wife happy.  The investment probably would have paid off in droves–you know what they say: ‘happy wife, happy life’.

So, still a fail. Big fail.

But my favourite image of the day is that of the tall young Dad with tattoos, and the little girl with the streaming blond hair perching on his knee while picking out a necklace. Her brother stood alongside, also debating what to get. Finally the daughter picked out a silver pendant. After much discussion, the dad and son decided to go with gift cards. His wife will not have to buy her own Mother’s Day gift.

Sir Snodbottom and the Throne

I hope you’ll indulge me a little silliness.  The following was the result of a writing exercise my writing group did the last time we met, entitled “The Christmas I’ll Never Forget”.  This is entirely fictional–after all, they said I didn’t have to write the truth.  I don’t, as a rule, write short stories, but here it goes: 

“What in heaven’s name?” Mom pointed the spatula at the lumpy, bumpy package that was about the size of my little brother.  It was not my little brother, but that would have been cool.

I was busy hip-checking it into the corner behind the tree, but I paused in my exertions. “Huh?”

“What is that?” She poked a finger in IT’s direction and waved the spatula. A piece of cookie dough flew off. It hit the floor and Buster the pug ate it.

“Mom,” I said. “It’s Christmas. I can’t tell you.” The package, wrapped in brown paper, not colourful Christmas paper, could not be hidden.  I had used this line on my little brother already.

“Well don’t…” She sighed. “Don’t knock over the tree, Avery. The angel’s about to fall off.” She reached up and pushed at it with one floury hand. Then she turned and marched back into the kitchen, Buster waddling behind her, smacking his lips.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

The present wouldn’t go any farther in the corner. There it would sit, like an overgrown turd. Maybe if I put a bow on it…?

It had cost me my entire piggybank, and selling my Sidney Crosby card, and cleaning Grandma’s driveway four times, and vacuuming all the sunflower seed hulls from Grandpa’s big Lincoln. It had taken me an hour to walk it, in a wheelbarrow, from Field’s Hardware Store to home. I had to pause several times to rest my arms and I had slipped once and nearly tipped it out. It couldn’t break. It was Mom’s gift.

You see, one fateful evening when she’d been out with my Aunt (Christmas shopping, I think), my brother and I had been playing knights and dragons. I was Sir Snodbottom the Valiant and he was the evil dragon, breathing fire and seeking whom he may devour. I chased him into his lair, the glass-walled shower, and stood outside, waving my mace and taunting him.

“Come out, you big baby!” Lord Snodbottom said, shaking his mace. “Come out and fight.”

“No!” came the muffled voice of the dragon. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to play anymore.”

“Come out, you big baby! You can’t hide forever.”

“Yes I can.”

Thus it continued.  Lord Snodbottom began to grow weary and decided to take a few practice swings with his mace, which was actually Mom’s metal kitchen hammer. His swings became a little too vigorous and the mace collided with the throne—the toilet.
Crash!

What was that?” the dragon squeaked, deep in his lair.

Lord Snodbottom took one look at the great gash in the porcelain throne and fled.

Thus the package. Mr. Fields sure had given me a funny look as I’d laid my money on the counter, and another as we lifted it into the wheelbarrow. I didn’t care. I was Sir Snodbottom, and I would redeem myself.

Christmas morning arrived, and while my little brother and Buster capered around the Christmas tree, I tugged the package into the center of the living room. Mom and Dad came out of their bedroom in their bathrobes, rubbing their eyes. I pointed. “Open this one first.”

Mom glanced at Dad, and Dad grinned. By her expression, I could tell she thought it was some odd prank, or a clay sculpture I had made in school, like last year.

She pulled away the brown paper, and there was a shining new toilet.