Drafting Hubbies for Holiday Shopping Wars

All right. Pipe down. I’ll keep the engine running in the van for a moment longer, but don’t get too comfortable.

Gentlemen, can we quiet down now? No? Then I’ll yell.

We are here today, men, because of Christmas. We are here parked in the lot of Christmas Tree Shops specifically because you’re worthless and weak, and you expect your women to do the dirty work--the shopping--for you yet again this yuletide.

But you’ve piled that load onto her once too often, bub. This year, your women won’t allow it. They are mad as hell, and they are not going to take it anymore, and so they have enrolled you--without your consent--in my Weekend Woman Warrior Workshop. DO NOT LET THE NAME CONFUSE YOU. Normally, I reserve my classes strictly for women who need to learn to cuss and stuff, but this year I am opening it up to you, the guys.

Don’t panic! That was just a shopping cart being rammed into the side of the van. We are sitting in a prime parking spot, and someone out there is getting antsy. Don’t worry. The van can take it. Can you?

You, the guys, who refuse to shop.

You, the guys, who are too chicken to brave the stores.

You, the guys, who evidently still believe that Santa stuffs his big butt down a chimney and delivers the goodies--no muss, no fuss--come Christmas Eve. A little childlike enthusiasm is a beautiful thing, boys, but this is silly.

Sorry to disillusion you, boys. Before you is Christmas Tree Shops. It’s big; it’s loud; it’s . . . Ignore that woman! Ignore her! She’ll get off the van in a minute. She’s just high on the thrill of the hunt. See those bags? See that smile? It looks like a grimace, doesn’t it? Remember in “Gladiator,” when Maximus charges with his sword? Remember his face? Well, that’s her. The shopping cart has been filled with useless junk that will look nice wrapped under a tree. And you know what’s in those bags? Pottery! Doilies! “The Onassis Women,” by Kiki Feroudi Moutsatsos, for $4.99! And what woman wouldn’t want that book in her stocking, come Christmas morning? Well, right, the Onassis women, but they’re mostly dead, so get over it.

See? She’s off the van now. That’s her doing a victory dance over by the Suburban.

This is a vital part of your training. Every year, your women brave this very crowd. And you will too but Not. If. You. Waver.

And you won’t be entirely alone. See that man over there? The one trying to unlock his car? If he wasn’t smack in New England, he could pass for a Bubba with that cheesy Van Dyke, comfortable belly and glassy-eyed look. See the woman next to him? Bouncing around with all the energy of a puppy? Does he look pathetic or what?

Ah, but looks are deceiving. You can’t tell from here, but that woman loves that man, precisely because he came with her to an all-girl Christmas Tree Shops. Know how many men are man enough to do that? That one. That ugly one right over there, holding the $9.99 talking lobster, which responds to movement with a digital rendition of “All Shook Up.”

Ah. I see I have your attention now. The point of all this is to get stuff, good stuff, stuff you can be proud of, stuff like the talking lobster, which will make your buddy’s talking bass a thing of the past.

You, Riley! Do you have anything to say for yourself?

“I’m scared, Sarge!”

Yes, it’s crowded and, yes, it’s noisy, but so is a subway. You are going in there and find me a $2.99 bag of Christmas bows, blue only. I know for a fact there are three bags in there, and five of you. I’m sliding the van door back now. I’m sliding it! Stay away from the burning car! May the best shopper win. Go! Go! Go!