Why I Hate Black Friday

My most comfortable pair of Reeboks bound my feet like some Geisha ritual, and my tongue was a piece of tattered felt; I could kill for a G & T but day's end would be but a leg of the journey. Was I at war, in the trenches, ready for another shelling to spray my comrades? No, I was just trying to find a working clock in the 3rd section of the market place in an IKEA store in Round Rock, Texas.

Very clever of the Swedes: there's no clock to be found--so if you've been cavalier and forgotten your wristwatch, you're dead meat. Still it's "the most wonderful time of the year," so one must do one's part. Truth be told, if we don't break at least five of the seven deadly sins, it just ain't Christmas.

"Sir, do you have the time?" I mumble raggedly to a man staring at kitchen gadgets.

"Ten of," he replied wearily.

"Uh-ten of what, if you don't mind."

"Ten of five, Ma'am. Long day?" He chuckles.

"Yeah, thanks. Long season." I'm turning away when he remarked,

"Well next time you're in this store, wear a watch-their most ingenious marketing plan is the lack of working clocks within sight of customers! You're gonna spend the day here."

"Oh Lord." I laughed too at this point. "No wonder we seem to camp out at IKEA. Well, Merry Christmas to you," I called cheerily, immediately catching my non-PC greeting.

"Thanks but I'm Jewish." He laughed. Wouldn't you know the one time I don't say "Happy Holidays," it's a nice Jewish man?

"God love ya." I said. We both laughed.

"Yeah," he added, "biggest mistake we Jews ever made--no Christmas--beats hell outta Hanukkah for retail."

We went our separate ways, both searching for the check-out lanes, miles from where we were.

IKEA is popular in many countries, but it's easy to see why Americans are wild for the place. It offers cheap, colorful and well organized STUFF, has something for everyone and even though you aren't always sure what you've bought, or how to assemble the neatly packaged gizmos, you're delighted with the prices

In America we're obsessed with cheap crap, and seconds-stores or overbuy outlets are more popular than ever. Entire malls are dedicated to outlets from the major design establishments, although it's hard to imagine why. . . do we need a rack of pink Polar Fleece vests in sizes 2 and 3? How do we justify taking home bags and bags of slightly dented picture frames or cute tins of tea with bruised cellophane wrappers? How? Because it's there. All over the place, it's just there.

Tuesday Morning is an establishment so crammed with department store overbuys they close early on Mondays in many locations, in order to make room for new shipments on Tuesdays. The store is incredible and chock-full of household items such as printed napkins in cow-hide designs. It's so crowded near the holidays it takes hours to get in and out, and by the time we check out we're so drained we contemplate the meaning of life. And not in a zen way.

We're dying of thirst, so we must, absolutely have to try that new holiday diet cranberry limeade freezy super drink at Sonic, but once we pull into the parking place, neatly supplied with reading materials announcing in neon colors the latest ice cream drink, we're also starved, so we order Tater Tots with Frito Pie Wraps, consisting of Fritos, chili and cheese neatly folded into a large flour tortilla.

Home again, deluged with tangles of plastic bags, we've ruined our appetites for a normal dinner, hopping instead into the shower, outfitted with automatic cleaning attachments and chrome dispensers of seven types of cleansing products. Hitting the sack, we think how great are these sheets: 375-thread count Egyptian cotton in peach and sage, luxurious to the max. But we got them at Ross for 1/5 the retail price. Drifting off, we murmur with our last breath, "God bless America."