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Taking risks on Black Friday


Every year, I make it a point - a sharp point - to do something so dangerous, it defies logic and the good sense God gave me.

I’m not talking about running amok with a turkey thermometer, jumping out of an airplane that’s running perfectly fine, or trying to separate a cat fight without a padded suit.

This year, as I regrettably do every year, I will join the hacked-off masses at the Day-After-Thanksgiving mega sales.

Much like a person with advanced dementia, I will revisit sites of carnage from years gone by, and I will be griping about it before I even get out of bed.

In addition to the Hamilton family Thanksgiving tradition of voting on who messed up their dish bad enough to bring paper goods to the Christmas meal, we also lay around like beached whales, reading sale circulars and plotting our own eventual demise.

Everyone but Kevin, who will still be napping off a turkey-induced coma on Friday and hopefully not notice his painted toe nails until Sunday; and Bobby, who I’m sure very reluctantly agreed to golf with his brother, David, on Friday in leui of a shopping extravaganza with the Hamilton girls.

Even the very attractive prospect of carrying our purses so our hands would be free for extreme shopping couldn’t convince them to join us.

And, even my second favorite sports of going to the grocery store the day before Thanksgiving and on Christmas Eve just to watch panicking women run in heels with a carton of eggs doesn’t hold a candle to our day after Thanksgiving shopping trip.

We always plan to begin our shopping day by being in our cars by 6 a.m. However, I usually get a phone call at 8 a.m., which wakes me. After coffee and makeup, I make it to town by 9 or 10 a.m.-ish when everybody who has been out and about since 4 a.m. is good and mad.

Target is usually our first destination, mainly because it carries retail items and has a Starbucks in-house. I purchase the bladder-buster cup with two shots of espresso to make it through that store.

After that we go to whatever stores the circulars told us to, squeezing lunch in between.
After hours of being in crowded stores with mannerless people who have never heard of Gas-X, we all realize that Santa is not our friend., and quite possaibly not even a welcome acquaintance.

By Friday night, my only goal will be to not look at my checkbook.

Running with a turkey thermometer is sounding better all the time.