The Nightmare Before Christmas

All year I have guarded a gift certificate to a shop near the hospital on the off chance that I would get an unexpected present around Christmastime when the budget was well blown. That day arrived the Wednesday before Christmas. On my desk sat 2 lovely wrapped boxes from coworkers whom I'd neglected.

I grabbed my certificate, gloating about my own financial savvy and overall generous level of wisdom. I am a genius, I prematurely congratulated myself. So proud was I that I hummed as I crossed Sunset on a fateful afternoon.

The shop was located just a short distance from the hospital. It was a strange shop with eyes painted above the doorway. Not Bette Davis eyes but definitely bedroom eyes. Under-the-bed bedroom eyes likely to possess large claws that can rip out our jugular. Yet I was un-distressed. This is L.A. Your minister could have such a thing painted on his doorstep from the day when Night of the Living Dead filmed at his/her place.

I entered the shop mid-jovial hop and immediately regretted my Christmas savings plan. Dead in front of me was a painting of a doll eating a part of the male anatomy. Yeah. I so didn't think about that one. I just swung my eyes to the other wall....where 2 people engaged in homicidal lovemaking.

Blech! Ugh! Uck!

I was officially scandalized. I dropped my eyes to the floor and reminded myself that despite the artwork, there had to be at least 1 unoffensive gift in this store - even if it was just a discarded pen at the counter. I kid - the sign said candles so somewhere there had to be candles - I just hoped they weren't in the shape of....you know.

The book section nearly scorched out my eyeballs so I stumbled further into the store towards the toy section. Yes, yes...I was aware this was dangerous. Yet I tilted my head bravely as my eyes scanned....

Oh my laws! Is that really what I think it is?!

In abject horror, I stared dumbly at the guillotine doll "with it own fountain of blood" for "hours of endless entertainment." Shocked. Horrified. Disgusted.

I felt a tickle on my arm. I brushed at it. I heard a buzz.

"YOUCH!" I screamed as the bee deposited its sticker. My horror transformed into fear. I had never been stung by a bee.

What if I'm allergic? I thought in a panic. What if I swell up and die in this store? What if the last thing I ever see in my whole life is a picture of a beheaded children's toy spouting fountains of blood from a boney, jagged wound in it neck? What if someone has to drag my body out of this store and there are pictures?! Oh hell! What if my friends and family have to come in here and identify the body?!

At about that moment, I realized my rapid breathing had nothing to do with anaphylactic shock. I am not, it appears, allergic to bee stings. I drew in a breath of relief and laughed at myself a little. Then I grabbed a candle not in the shape of you know and a lovely notebook about famous women in history and their contributions (sans favorite sexual position - but believe me, I checked carefully before buying).

I felt somewhat smug for what I'd survived as well as my ability to be financially savvy this late in the Christmas game. Until I turned a corner.

The lightheadedness and palpitations returned. In front of me stood a woman and her 2 children. Purchasing. Christmas. Gifts. In this awful store. Her children were purchasing...I felt ill. Especially as the younger of the 2 sounded out Need free needles? Ask me.

Now I'm all about HIV prevention. Really. But at that moment, as my sister later quipped, I got stung by a bee and discovered my inner WASP.