Writer’s Block

It was the day after Thanksgiving, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The children were left with sitters of young ages

Who called up their boyfriends then locked kids in cages;

The dads laid on couches oblivious to the fact

That their wives were all missing — they might never come back.

The women had woken up with the sun,

And prepared for a little post- Thanksgiving Day fun.

Their husbands and kids they left rather quick,

And off to the mall they drove lickity split…

No kidding — they went to the mall.

Maybe it was the turkey — perhaps there is either a rare strain of mad-turkey disease going around or my grandmother laced her world famous chocolate chip cookies with PCP, or maybe it was that extra X chromosome working overtime or maybe I am just crazy:

I went shopping the day after Thanksgiving.

Perhaps this strange phenomenon just occurs in Massachusetts. On the day after Thanksgiving, men lie on their couches in a near-comatose state. Their testosterone is depleted from eating too much turkey and their brains are fried from watching hour after joyful hour of men in shiny tights pummel each other and run back and forth like idiots in the freezing cold playing a game that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

On “Black Friday” the menfolk lie back gouging themselves on rancid leftovers that they never put in the fridge the night before. Meanwhile, every female between the ages of five and 120 is driven by an deep womanly instinct, to flock to the nearest mall and take part in the ritualistic post-Thanksgiving-shop-until-she-creatively-buys-for-everyone-on-her-shopping-list-or-dies-trying mission. Men aren’t expected to understand this because words like E-S-T-R-O-G-E-N scare them.

Anyways, at 6 a.m. on the day after Thanksgiving, armed with a mile-long shopping list, credit cards, Powerbars and one of those shields that the riot police use, I set out for the mall.

In Massachusetts, there is a law that every mall must have at least 100 parking lots, whose square mileage is equal to that of the state of Rhode Island. Three hundred sixty-four days out of the year, 99 percent of these lots are empty. (Why then are miles and miles of cement are mandatory for a shopping mall? Well there is the theory that they are used by Federal Corporations like the F.F.A. for emergency space ship landings — remember the ’80s movie “Spacecamp?” Mall parking lots are the equivalent of White Sands, New Mexico.) Luckily, the parking lots were designed by the same architectural geniuses who have brought us the Big Dig — so there is never any traffic.

Additionally, these parking lots are policed by SUV-driving rent-a-cops who love to harass shoppers. For example, they often like to change the row numbers while people are shopping. Then they sit back, munching on donuts, laughing at the poor souls plodding confusingly through the parking lots when unbeknownst to them, Section W is now located in upstate New Hampshire and you have to take a shuttlebus to get there.

Note: if you ever want to have good, clean, sober fun in a mall parking lot, I suggest a game named “Scatter.” Walk with a couple of friends through the parking lot and get cars to follow you to your “parking space.” As soon as you get near your “car,” run in all different directions as to confuse and irritate the parking space seeker.

Second note: do not play this game with trucks that have gun racks.

After knocking over an elderly couple and their poodle, who took far too much time to open the doors to the mall, I sprinted inside and was floored by the overwhelming commercialized holiday cheer.

Everywhere I looked was covered with glitter, bows, ribbons, snow-in-a-can and other fun-not-to-be-inhaled-holiday decorations. There were elves, fairies and other kinds of scary little people.

As I fantasized about the thousands of giant papier-mache snowflakes ripping loose for the ceiling and crushing Santa, his village and all his scary-little-fiendish-over-priced-picture-taking helpers, I began to shop.

During the holiday season, it is necessary to follow a very strict mantra while shopping: kill or be killed (it’s the same kind of feeling one must have while driving through New York during rush hour). Forget peace on earth and good will toward men; when it comes to finding the perfect Christmas present for your irritatingly finicky roommate, you must be ruthless.

If there is only one ridiculously overpriced I-must-have-this-over-advertised-object-or-I-am-a-social -nobody left in the store, like Beanie Babies, the white power ranger, the seizure-causing Elmo doll, or little silver scooters that wreak havoc on Commonwealth Ave. pedestrians, then it is perfectly permissible to push, shove and step on anyone who gets in your way. This tenet applies even if it is your own grandmother and she is buying presents for your crippled cousin Timmy who has only two months to live.

Six hours of ruthless shopping later, I was escorted out of the mall by two burly, gun-toting policemen. Luckily, I had gotten most of my shopping done … well, no … that’s a lie. I did succeed in purchasing the traditional, useless, meaningless kitchen appliance that my mother comes to love every year. Then I got bored and spent the rest of the time drooling over and stalking the Banana Republic workers … I mean fashion consultants. They basically ignored me until I tried to coerce a couple of them into a dressing room for some three-on-one fashion consulting. Then they called the cops.

Where did I park again?