True confessions of a holiday shopaholic
I was shopping at 5 a.m. Friday. Sad but true.
The day after Thanksgiving, known in the business world as Black Friday, is, to me, the equivalent of a national holiday.
Every Thanksgiving, my husband and I spend quality time with our newspaper (we don’t cheat by going online early to look at ads) to come up with the best strategy for getting the best deals on all the items on our Christmas lists.
I take the day off (although I worked this year), get my husband and daughter out of bed before dawn, and hit the stores with them.
We stop at Cutters Point in Covington for hot chocolate and butterhorns and hit Fred Meyer at 5 a.m. We hit at least half a dozen stores, sometimes splitting up, before 10 a.m. We’re such strategic shoppers that we’re usually done by then, so we head home to bed.
This year, I had to redo the plan because I wanted to be at Circuit City at 5 a.m. And then I had to work.
I can’t tell you about all the cool stuff I bought because my family reads this column. (Yes, I make them.)
But I can tell you that, as usual, I was jazzed about standing in line at every store, racing for the two items that everyone wanted (only two per store, thank you) and then waiting in line to pay behind the one person who doesn’t have that store’s credit card and holds up the line to fill out the epic-length application.
I’ve met some nice people shopping on Black Friday.
One year at Target in Kent, I watched as a customer found a stash of sought-after portable DVD players on a top shelf. Rather than take his box and sprint to beat someone to another deal, he handed them out to others. On Black Friday, that’s practically grounds for sainthood.
Last year at Kohl’s in Covington, I got to the store 5 minutes after it opened, but all the carts were gone. I figured I could carry everything easily, but - surprise, surprise - I bought more than I expected: sheets, towels and blankets in the home department, four pairs of jeans and four sweaters in the girls department.
All in all, it was a great 30 minutes of power shopping. Then I went downstairs to pay. The line went completely around the store.
My soon-to-be purchases rested precariously in my arms, which, after about 15 minutes, began to shake. The woman in front of me took pity on me and told me to put my things on her cart. I asked if she’d pay for them, too. At least she laughed.
Cindy Zetts: 253-234-8602 or czetts@seattletimes.com