When shopping local goes awry

Jeffrey is only a touch away

Aloha dear reader!

I hope this message finds you well and that each and every one of you has had a great Christmas Day.

Though I love the holiday and time with family, I’m completely inept as a shopper.

Some show love through feeding others.

Some show love through acts and deeds.

Then?

Then there are those who show their love for each other through thoughtful gifts.

Given that I love my wife and am terrible at shopping, I’m very grateful that Laura is more concerned with how I treat her and help out in little ways than when it comes to purchasing gifts.

You know darling, there’s a new knitting store and ‘maker space’ on Portland Street. I’d love something from there.

Gotta hand it to my wife. She’s pretty direct and wants to help me. Buying a gift should have been easy for me. All I had to do was listen to her then go to the special, new, funky, millennial run knitting / maker space and buy something - anything really.

Now dear reader, ask yourself as I have: how hard could it be?

In reality?

Much more difficult than you’d expect.

Let’s get busy with the details shall we?

This wasn’t a ‘fabric store’ like I remember them. There were open spaces, tables and room to move. The place was bereft of elderly ladies who smelled like menthol cigarettes. There wasn’t a perm to be found.

Instead?

The joint was filled with hipster millennial women in fashionable clothes that they obviously didn’t make. There was a wall of yarn, some knitting needles and stuff, books, a ‘maker space’ with tables and an area with a bunch of small pieces of cloth.

It looked like an advertisement for bankruptcy.

There were even some chunks of fabric that came with a book - a kind of pre planned quilt kit with both the fabric necessary and a pattern to do the work.

For some?

That would be a great present.

But for Laura, these quilt kits were way below Laura’s pay grade. She’s way too accomplished for training wheels.

All of this though?

It was all too much for me.

It was three days before Christmas. I needed a gift for Laura and I left it all for the last minute. I was relying on this store and it was letting me down.

I thought about buying her a fat quarter.

And dear reader, it pains me that I even know what a fat quarter is.

Sadly, it’s not a descriptor of women who sew, or the bums they sit on as they stitch and bitch.

It’s a bundle of fabric. I held one in my hand, thought about the chaos of Laura’s sewing room and nearly barfed.

Adding yet another pile of fabric to the chaos of that woman’s life would be like hitting a drowning man with a fire hose and a bottle of San Pellegrino.

It was then that it hit me. It was three days before Christmas and I was absolutely fucked.

Defeat is never easy. I began staggering around the room, wheeling from notions to needles to patterns and books growing more confused and deranged with every step.

I was a fish outta water, a cat in a lake or an HR lady at a comedy show.

I felt so alienated and alone!

The trauma dear reader! Oh the drama of the trauma.

Through the shock, I searched for the friendly eyes. Find the helpers I told myself.

There were none to be found.

Instead?

I found a bunch of introverted women wearing ethically sourced comfortable footwear.

I tried to reach them but I was unable to speak.

Wife? Much stuff… need present… divorce not an option…

Sadly, unlike the rural ladies who work at Fabric City, these downtown millennial hipsters were used to soft handed men who mourn a bruised avocado and didn’t know how to deal with a deranged Gen X man foaming at the mouth and no fucks to give.

And on top of that?

I’m so fucking sexy that the mere presence of my handsomeness may have caused a mass fainting. This must be why they all turned away.

Still in a daze, I tried to appeal to their sense of justice:

Shop local! I need a safe space! Cows are people too!

Oh dear reader, I tried to reach them and all I received in return were icy cold stares.

Support your local pig farmer! Free Brittny!

None of my attempts to connect were either coherent or successful.

These women didn’t want me there. They didn’t want to help. They turned their backs to me and spoke in hushed tones. I knew I didn’t belong. There were no helpers here.

Defeated, I staggered out the door.

But all was not lost dear reader for I had a mobile phone and the Amazon App!

And Jeffery,

Dear Mr Bozos?

He didn’t let me down.

Though I wanted to shop local, I had a much more human experience finding happiness from A to Z.