When Black Friday Comes…
I am just not a big fan of the crowds; though I love a deal, I can't stand the pushing and shoving, and there's no way I'm camping out on the sidewalk overnight for anything for Christmas. I love a deal year-round, and those amazing deals are out there to be found without having to put up with the Black Friday Crowd. I've been to "The Store That Shall Not Be Named" with My Mom later in the day a couple times, but I don't think I've ever been shopping anywhere any earlier than I'd be getting to work on an ordinary day -- I need my breakfast, and I'm not going to eat while pushing a shopping cart 'cause that's just trashy, and I'm not going to eat in an elbow-to-elbow crowd either, 'cause that's just gross.
I've found some excellent deals over the years; but none of 'em were Black Friday Deals. My favorite deals are mostly the result of always keeping an eye out or being in the right place at the right time… None of 'em involved chasing my ass out of bed at an unholy hour to freeze half to death fighting a shopping cart through a crowd of grumpy strangers.
My favorite Black Friday Story involves only minimal shopping…
In 1998, my 22nd Birthday landed on Black Friday. I was in PTA School and had been considering a tattoo for quite a while, but there was always a friend or boyfriend or someone there to talk me out of it, but not anymore -- I had me some girlfriends, and one of 'em knew a guy who ran a tattoo place just across the state line in Siloam Springs Arkansas. I told the folks we were all going out shopping for Christmas, and we loaded up in my car, the three of us and "Kelly," the kidnapped training mannequin from the college, who went along strictly for the photo opportunities.
I'd fully planned it out to make the trip on the sly; we stopped on the way out of town for aluminum foil to wrap up my Pikepass so we could pay cash for tolls and not have anything show on the statement. I called My Mom and checked in from the loud, crowded grocery store where we picked up the foil, then I turned off my phone at the city limits so it wouldn't show any roaming charges.
My Bee tattoo is from a stamp that I picked up on a random trip to Hobby Lobby, way back before I knew the magic of the yarn department.
With two piercings, one tattoo, and an entire roll of film, we were headed back into Tulsa while it was still light outside.
I was very careful to always keep pants or socks on at home. My folks never knew a thing about it for almost six months, when late into April, I headed into the kitchen in my bathrobe without any socks. I realized what I'd done when I was about halfway through the living room and Mom had already seen me, it was too late to turn around and go back for socks. She saw it while I was pouring a glass of milk, and the shit hit the fan. The fit that ensued involved everything from IV drug use to white trash to homelessness to slutty girls to just don't fucking talk to me about it to think about finding some other place to live; and I never said another word that day.
It's a honey bee, notably life-like, life-size or thereabouts, and I can cover it up with a nickel. It's on my right ankle, just anterior to the distal end of my fibula. Heh, sorry, just had to say it like that 'cause I was in PTA School when I got it. It's on the outside of my ankle, right behind (level with) that bony bump, 'cause you know how all those homeless, slutty, white trash needle-druggies get nickel-size tattoos to hide the tracks 'cause they're shooting it in right there by their ankle bones, right?
My little honey bee is twelve years old today, and I think he still looks alright -- the yellow has faded from his little stripes, but his lines have stayed crisp and black. I still like him, I still hit him with a little lotion (or sometimes lip balm) to wake him up when I'm wearing shorts or sandals where I might get to show him off. I think My Mom has managed to get over it, mostly; and for me, regret has never been a factor.
Happy twelfth birthday, lil buddy, sorry it's too cold to let you out to play today!