It’s too damn hot. Too hot to write. Too hot to breathe I think. Maybe I should concentrate on Christmas…This might sound odd, but making or purchasing gifts for my friends and family gives me more pleasure than anything else most of the time.
I come from a line of Professional Shoppers of the First Order. Some of my earliest memories are of going to the tea room at Bullock’s Wilshire to watch the fashion show with my grandmother and mother and aunts. Then my grandmother would try on hats — often buying one — and take me to the fifth floor and buy me a toy, usually a doll by Madame Alexander.
I have graduated to kamakazi shopper status. I know where to go to find what I need, go there, get it and get out before I become distracted, stressed out or overwhelmed by other shoppers. Still finding the perfect gift for a person — not just any gift but the perfect gift — is a quest I willingly take on because I can imagine how tickled the recipient will be when they receive it. For example, growing up my brother’s favorite baseball player was Willie Mays. Even though I didn’t have much money, I saved up and for Brian’s 40th birthday, I was able to give him a signed baseball by the SF Giant star.
As for myself, I’m weird that way. I have too much stuff, don’t really want anything — perhaps that is why my life is as it is –isolated, in my head: I like the idea of people in general, in specific, not so great. I can be a fantastic Auntie Laurel (the one who takes nieces and nephews to the theater) but the one who takes them to the emergency room, probably not. It’s the old Push Me Pull You syndrome. Don’t Tread On Me.