my eyes off hers, I opened my mouth only to call out for my assistant. She flew the door open instantly, giving away that she had probably been listening outside the whole time.
“You can show Hansel out now,” I told her.
“It’s Hazel.”
I grinned, knowing full well what her name was. But getting under this woman’s skin was proving to be a great source of entertainment for me.
“I expect your reply within twenty four hours,” she called out as she marched away, pushing right past my assistant.
I slammed the door shut and took a moment, still laughing to myself. What a pistol...to just come blazing through like that, blackmailing me and making demands. It was kind of hot...but mostly just infuriating. Either way, I was dead set on not giving in. Even if there was a small temptation to want to see just how she would try and convert me.
5
Hazel
As much as I loathed the idea of the true meaning and magic of Christmas being overshadowed by the materialistic side of Christmas, shopping and gift giving was still one of my top five favorite things about Christmas.
I loved everything about Christmas shopping. Making a list, envisioning and finding the perfect gift for each special person in your life, shopping among all the decorations and holiday cheer, wrapping each carefully packaged gift with love and care. It all swirled together and filled me with a buzzing glow that was a lot like swallowing a warm mouthful of hot chocolate. I could feel it spreading through every inch of my body.
The first order of business in a successful Christmas shopping trip was, of course, the list. And list-making was a love of mine that was almost comparable to the holidays themselves.
That year I had prepared my best one yet - complete with all members of the family, the perfect ideas for each, and tentative places to find said perfect ideas.
“I’ve made copies for each of you,” I announced to my mom and Margo.
Mom smiled politely as she read hers over while Margo read it with the same stern precision I imagined she read her legal briefings over with.
“Wait. You suggested gift ideas for all of us?” she scoffed. “Hazel, no offense. But do you really feel qualified to tell me what to buy my own husband for Christmas?”
“Yes, I do,” I smiled confidently. “You’re telling me Tom doesn’t need a new pair of reading glasses? Or that he wouldn’t enjoy that foot warmer slash massager from The Sharper Image?”
She rolled her eyes.
“Anyway, they’re just suggestions. Feel free to take it. Or leave it if you want him to be horribly disappointed with what you decide to get for him on your own.” I glanced down at the time on my phone. “We’re late. If we’re going to make the most out of this year’s first official holiday shopping excursion, we have to leave now. Where’s Payton?”
No sooner than I said it, the back door flew open and a rather disheveled version of my younger sister came rushing in.
“Sorry, I’m…”
“Late,” I finished for her, disapprovingly.
My sisters and mom shot each other teasing glances, meant for me, which I had grown to recognize all too well. I think they first started appearing among my family when I was five and attempted to plan out holidays with hour by hour schedules of events. But it was that same drive and ability to plan that made my blogging career such a success, so they could all eat it as far as I was concerned.
We hit downtown in all its holiday splendor...complete with string lights and carols blasting over the store speakers into the busy sidewalks. Everyone was bundled up in their hats, scarves, and beautiful winter coats. In between stores we’d stop into the bakeries and cafes to warm up with coffee or tea or freshly baked breads and soups. Shopping fuel, as I called it.
But things took a literal turn for the worse when I realized, while walking and naming off the next string of stores on our route, that I was suddenly alone. My mom and sisters had veered off. I whipped around to see them stopped on the corner, waiting to cross the street to Palmers.
“Hey! Wait up! Where are you guys going?”
Payton’s face wrinkled up. “Where does it look like we’re going? Palmers. Duh.”
“It wasn’t on my list.”
They looked at each other cluelessly.
“Well whose fault is that?” Margo gaped.
“Come on, dear,” my mother laughed. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that we skip Palmers!