Thanksgiving Day Weekend At The Mall - Part 1

It's like a card out of those personal board games that tries to get to your inner psyche. You know the ones, "Would you cheat on your wife/girlfriend for a million dollars (tax-free)", or "Would you rather be stupid and beautiful, or hideous and brilliant?" Only this card would read "Would you rather roll around in broken glass after drinking rat poison mixed with battery acid, or go to a mall Thanksgiving weekend?" Most sane people would take the drink and exercise. Me? I went to the mall.

Not just any mall. Not the nearby mall which I imagine I'll get caught at a few weeks later indulging in my Christmas Eve tradition of going to Toys R Us just before closing to see the devastation caused by the midget snot monsters and to watch the store staff wander the isles in the green aprons and Santa hats mutely pleading for a quick bullet to the skull.

No, nor is it the south end gang banger mall where I suspect Santa is packing and I am not talking a flask of Jack.

The mall I went to was the mall where the self-entitled and privileged go. In Seattle, we call it "Bell Square" short for "Bellevue Square" short for "I have more money than God and I drip bling and you don't..."

I hate Bellevue. I hate the people from Bellevue and for all appearance in both deed and song, they hate me back. Did I mention I was just tagging along to Bell Square because a friend had to go the weekend sale at William and Sonoma to buy pans? Don't ask, I don't pretend to understand.

Bellevue starts out as a place of over-compensation in everything. Trendy, spendy and totally unfriendly. I suspect it is a populace of men looking to ditch their bitchy women and women who are bitchy because their men are ogling the babysitter. I kid you not. My jailbait radar goes wild in Bellevue because the 16 year-olds look 21 and the 10 year olds look 16. I trust no woman in Bellevue unless I can see gray hair. Or, even safer, that broken and bitter look that only divorced women have.

First, let me point out that the closer you get to a mall, the more insane and dangerous the house fraus in minivans get. Turn signals? Ha! Right of way? Forget it. Mad Max would seem mild compared these horrid drivers. It is like driving in a sea of angry sheep. As we get cut off, I always debate whether they saw us and didn't care, or are the numbingly dumb. Then I remind myself the two are not mutually exclusive. So with zigging and sudden braking and swearing, the mall is near. Approaching the mall has all the joys of success as crossing the land of Mordor and escaping Orcs, just to find yourself in a more awful place - the parking garage.

By the time we get into the parking lot and garage, it has become apparent that this is a fight to the death. First thing is first, the parking attendants who are coming into their first real taste of power. They wave and posture and look really pissed. Well, I guess it beats asking if you want fries with that order, but I seriously doubt they know where the parking is, they are just trying to get you to the furthest spot possible from the mall.

Then there is the piranha parking. Let me set the stage. A man and/or woman approaches their car, notices the four or five cars jockeying to get into position up to three lanes away and they decide to move in absolute slow motion. They take minutes to load their car with their packages. I swear they take cell calls, re-arrange their cars, do make-up and any other noxious thing that consumes the minutes I have left to me on Earth. God forbid, there are small children. That can double the time. Car seats, placating the brat(s), and finding "Bonkie" for them so they don't scream all the way home and force the parents to drive into a telephone pole killing all in the car and taking out the homeless guy begging for money.

So while the leavers leave, there is the slow death dance of the arrivers. For starters, we've got the minivan closest to the spot. They have stopped dead-middle of the lane. No signal, no intent. Just stopped. Since we are behind them, we are stuck because there is not enough room to pass, nor can we make sense of what we see because the SloMos have yet to actually get their car lights set to reverse yet. So just about the time we are going to lay on the horn, we see the reverse lights come on and we think that we'll be going in a second, only to realize that some dumbass is coming down the isle the wrong way signaling for the soon (maybe) to be open spot. We stare hatefully because we know that the Minivan will take the spot and leave us with "Mr. Beamer" who thinks he can cheat his way in and who will then proceed to try to get around us even though it is not just us now, but two others that thought they could shark the spot. Fingers fly and horns honk. On to the next spot. We repeat variations on this behavior until we realize that with a little Jersey moxie, we too can cut off the guy in the Ford F-250 with the gun rack and get our parking spot.

The Mall itself.

Human words cannot describe it justly but I will try. It is a giant alien Petrie dish of everything I have come to hate in my life all in one place. The stuff of nightmare. Mallrats everywhere. Bubble-gum snapping, giggly stupid girls and the pouty poser boys that want to jump them and create future mallrats. When I make eye contact with these creatures, I am struck with the awesome emptiness in their heads and souls. They are the future. Kill me now.

Then there are the designer-dressed house fraus with the precious little "Berkely"s or "Hailey"s that will one day sign their parents nursing home papers with relief, bustling their evil spawn along. Extra points if the bobbins have matching outfits.

"Now, Camden, " Mommy chirps, "try not to walk in front of people..." as Camden toddles his way into much faster traffic. I think to myself "Now, Camden, walk in front of the really scary man wearing boots that will pretend not to see you and swing his extra heavy bag teaching you one of your first physics lessons. Did I write that? My bad...