The Village of the Damned, Part 8

Click Here to read this story from the beginning.


Now that we’ve had the “clean and squeaky” tour of the city, with all the pretty lights and charming houses, it’s time to peel back the layers and find out what’s really going on in Bonnywood Village, exposing some of the secrets and lies surrounding the citizenry. I won’t tell everything, of course. I’ve got to hold back the juiciest stuff for the inevitable sequel.

And here we go. Please note that the pictures in this post were taken by me using my non-professional camera. Since I don’t have the skills or the equipment that my sister has, I had to compensate for my amateur status by looking for interesting angles that hopefully tell a story while at the same time distract you from the fact that I suck at taking pictures.

We’ll start in the rural part of town. Keep in mind that you can click on any picture for the full-blown version in case you desire to carefully study the depravity contained within…




Isn’t this cute? We’re looking at the Berrywood School, where all the little farm boys and farm girls go to get their learnin. Think “Little House on the Prairie” except they have running water and electricity, and Nellie Oleson has been dead for a while.

The charm of this scene diminishes once you realize what’s about to happen. You see, the matronly woman on the left, the schoolmarm for Berrywood, is just returning from a private prayer consultation with the local minister. (You can see her personal house of worship just behind her.) Five seconds after this shot was taken, she walked into Berrywood to find underage Johnny Banger and Marissa Slutworth racing about the room, completely naked and sweating far more than is required when one is attending school.

Completely aghast, the schoolmarm then ordered the youngsters to locate and resume wearing their clothing. Both of the naughty children quickly did so, while at the same time protesting that this was not what it seemed, they were merely re-enacting the Temptation in the Garden scene with Adam and Eve. And we all know that they didn’t wear clothes back then, so they were simply trying for realism to fully understand the emotional angst of that moment. (We’ll ignore the fact that no apples were found on the premises, making their story a bit suspicious.

The schoolmarm did not buy this at all. She dismissed the children and sent them home in disgrace. She knew they were lying. After all, she had just been doing the same “scholarly research” with Father Hardwood at the church next door. (No apples were found over there, either.)

Next we travel to one of the downtown streets. There are three reasons for reporting on this particular scene.

The first point is that something illicit has apparently happened in one of the buildings on the left side of the street. We have a police officer investigating a crime, so something unfortunate has obviously taken place, despite the rather casual manner of the officer. Why has he not drawn his gun? Why does he look rather irritated and defensive, as if he’d rather be watching “Desperate Housewives”. But still, the curious crowd of onlookers on the right side of the street confirms that laws have been broken.

Second, we have the initial appearance of one Tiffany Davis. She’s the blond child on the left, rudely crossing in front of a manger scene. Who in their right mind would try to upstage the Baby Jesus? Tiffany would, with her curly golden locks and her “it’s all about me” manner of walking. Tiffany appears multiple times in this travelogue, madly racing to every part of town where I shoved my camera, vying for attention with psychotic need.

Thirdly, and most quizzically, why is everybody in this scene, even the children, much larger than the vehicle parked in the middle of the road. None of them could possibly fit inside. What’s going on here?

This is Hubert, and his tale is a tragic one. You see, he had fallen in love with a lovely young thing that he met on “Lustbuddies.com”, one of those social websites where people are looking for love in all the wrong places. Happily, he had been corresponding for several months with the object of his affection, Drusilla, and they had truly grown very fond of each other without ever having actually met.

Sadly, Hubert is a very stupid man. Drusilla had finally decided it was time for them to meet. In public, of course, because you should always be cautious with such Internet things. She asked him to meet up with her at the mailbox on the main square, near the gazebos.

Stupid Hubert misunderstood this directive, and on the night of their planned meeting he went looking for the mailbox near the gazelles rather than the gazebos. (Who in the hell has gazelles on the village square?) Unable to find said animals, dimwitted Hubert marched home forlornly, walking right past the intended mailbox on the square and, if you look to the far right, marched past Drusilla herself in her pretty ball gown. They would never meet.

Which is a good thing, really. We have enough stupid people in the world as it is, we certainly don’t need stupid babies confused about structures and animals.

Okay, with this shot, I had originally intended to capture the cute little family tying a Christmas tree on top of their car, as well as the lovely skyline of housing in the background. But what happens? That rude Tiffany child comes racing into the scene, directly in front of the car.

As if the girl can help in any way. Number one, she’s a figurine, with her arms permanently clutching a stack of books in the pretense that she actually studies books instead of gossip magazines. Without available arms, how can you possibly assist the family with their tree? Clearly, this child has attention issues.

This is a snap of “Somerset Lanes”, a bowling alley in the seedier part of town. I risked personal injury in order to take this shot, because I felt it was my duty to report on the wickedness that has invaded some of the metropolis. There are multiple signs of sin and hooliganism surrounding this establishment.

First, we have an overabundance of signage on the front of the building. There are at least five signs on the right side alone. This can only mean one thing: drugs are sold on the premises. This does not lead to a healthy neighborhood.

Then we have the fact that the tree on the right is highlighted with gaudy neon spotlights. This is quite shameful, and is a clear indication that whores are available at reasonable rates. If you have any relatives with commitment issues, you should be very suspicious if they announce that they are headed to Somerset Lanes for “some bowling with the buddies.” They are lying.

Finally, on the far left, we have what appears to be an outhouse that has fallen on the building. Why does this place have an outhouse? And why has it fallen over? Seriously, don’t come down this street. I beg you.

I don’t even have to add a story to this shot.

The picture speaks for itself.

The sadness on Mr. Potter’s face, the immense snow drift about to consume the town, the alarming power surge in the restaurant in the background, the ugly item Mr. Potter is clutching. The pathos is overwhelming. Mr. Potter needs to move to a different neighborhood, don’t you think?

And we have yet another shot of the evil Tiffany trying to take center stage.

I was originally trying to capture the sad tale of Mr. Gruntworthy, the man standing in between the two left gazebos. Word about town is that he was hoping to reunite with his long-lost daughter in this very square where, years ago, the two of them shared happy times before she became a bitter revolutionary that refused to wear deodorant or acknowledge familial ties.

Tiffany heard of this possible encounter, and raced to the square before I could capture the man in his lonely sadness. She’s obviously not his daughter, but she’s running towards him as if they were, fully aware that cameras are flashing.

And even though I despise the spotlight-hogging tyke, I do have to give her credit for agility. If you study carefully, you’ll see that she somehow managed, in the time span of one snapshot, to play the role of loving returning daughter (lower center of the square) and tag-along friend/sister that could also be returning to Poppa or offering assistance to people dealing with the transport of a Christmas tree (lower right of the square), with her golden locks and stupid beanie cap.

This is Jack’s Diner, which you can probably discern based on the sign on top of the building saying “Jack’s Diner”. This is one of those places where rich people go when they think they are being all street and stuff.

We have four primary players that you can see in the windows.

Let me break it down for you. Left to right, we have Abigail Powers, Rudy Powers, Jed Beavers and Crystal Beavers. Abigail has just announced to her husband that she will no longer have sex with him because she had a vision while watching a servant clean the lint trap on the dryer, and the Lord told her that sex was no longer in fashion.

Rudy isn’t really bothered by this pronouncement, because he’s secretly banging Jed and welcomes the free time for more banging. Jed, sitting a bit stiffly because he plays catcher for Rudy, is listening to Crystal announce that SHE is banging the short-order cook at Jack’s. Just to the immediate right of Crystal is said short-order cook, apparently in the process of banging someone else.

I didn’t promise you a rose garden, folks. I just calls it as I sees it…

And here’s our parting shot. I had to use a flash so you could get all of the detail…

Yes indeed, we have Santa, drunk off his ass, staggering out of a Victorian Pub. (I’m not making this up, look at the sign on the building. I would never lie to you or exaggerate in any way.) I have no idea where the reindeer might be, or for that matter, the undelivered presents. Chances are there will be some dissatisfied children contacting their lawyers in the morning…

And thus our journey ends….

I hope you enjoyed your time in the Village of the Damned. I sure did.

Pray for peace, people, everywhere.

Seriously.

And thanks for the milk and cookies….

The Village of the Damned, Part 7

Click Here to read this story from the beginning.


Okay, folks, we’re taking a break from the narrative and spending a bit of time analyzing snapshots of The Christmas Village. All of these shots were taken by my esteemed photographer sister Dawn, after she wandered into the room to find me weeping despondently over the fact that I couldn’t get a decent “night-time” shot of any part of the village.

Sensing my emotional needs, she quickly whipped out her ultra-deluxe camera (I believe she had to go through certification training before she was allowed to carry it around) and saved the day. Be sure to click on each snap to see the larger, and possibly more frightening, image.
And here we go...


Okay, this is the view from the middle of the room, facing east. Directly in front of you is the “Downtown” area, which was recently moved back to the actual middle of town after a few years in the suburbs. The citizenry never really appreciated the downtown being in a dumbass place, so I had to move it back.

That brightly glowing thing, just about dead center in this picture and sitting on one of the bookshelves, is actually a model of Graceland, as in the place where Elvis ate peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I’ve never actually been there, but the advertising on the box swears that it’s an exact replica. You can set this thing to play Elvis Christmas songs.

And the thing has its own remote control.

Seriously, I can stand in this position, pick up the remote which lives on the roof of the St. Nicholas Square bank building located in the extreme lower left of the dining table, and can then manipulate the lights, adjust the volume of Elvis (or just turn him off, cause Dude, I understand that you‘ll have a Blue Christmas without me, but enough already), or change the song selection.

On the left wall we have one of the residential sections, on the right wall we start out at the bottom with businesses around a lake, then as you climb the “mountain” it turns into a ski resort.

If you look at the sheets hanging down the mountain, you might notice what looks like a bit of “red eye” toward the floor. This is the tail end of a power strip. You don’t ever want to get nosey and peek in there at how many electrical cords terminate right at that point. It will scare the hell out of you, and you might possibly run screaming from the house, never looking back or visiting again during the holiday season.

Shifting to the right from the previous picture, we get this angle on the village. It’s the same scene, but from this perspective it looks like there are even more houses, even though you actually can’t see the mountain anymore.


This is another example of how anal I get with the village. I meticulously consider how things might look from different points in the room. I don’t know if anyone has ever noticed the detail of the planning, but I live for it. During the construction phase, it’s not unusual for me to sit up in the middle of the night and scream “Oh my God, the second bakery has to be turned 90 degrees!” And then I’m reaching for my jammie pants and running down the hall.

This is a better angle on the main residential section. Much of the housing consists of Victorian era models, but there are lots of things thrown in here. The key is not so much about consistent architectural style but has more to do with balance of color and lighting. You do it right, and things look like they all match even though they certainly don’t in the light of day. It’s all about the illusion, right?


And it wasn’t until I reviewed this picture just now that I noticed one of the village packing boxes is sitting on top of the giant apothecary cabinet on the far left. (This particular item is a lighthouse, and it would have looked nice and dramatic up there if I had managed to take it out of the box and turn it on.) This is incredibly tacky on my part, and I will most likely not be getting my Village Merit Badge this year.

This is basically the view looking out from Graceland, so this is what Elvis gets to see when he isn’t singing or eating or asking Lisa Marie what she was thinking with the Michael Jackson thing. This is the true town square. To qualify as a candidate for placement in this prime area, a building has to meet rigid code enforcement specifications and exhibit the proper style.


I did make an exception to the rules this year by placing the odd, wedge-shaped building in the mid lower-left, even though the style is totally wrong and out of place. But this is a Chevrolet dealership, and the car on display inside actually rotates while tiny people gaze at this wondrous sight. That amazing mechanical ability allowed the building to make the cut. Sadly, the building is facing the other way and the wonder is lost from this angle. Just take my word for it, mmmkay?


In the middle forefront, we have Union station, which is actually one of three train stations that currently serve this village. (These people like to travel, probably wanting to go some place where all the damn houses don’t light up at night.) Just to the left, that little green thing is an entrance to the subway.


Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Village got an underground mass transit system installed this year. It’s a very exciting time. Granted, there are only two stops (the other one is in a western suburb that we’ll visit shortly), but still, these people are really living the high life now.

This is the far northwestern part of town. I really like the bit on the lower right. Several years ago, the Lemax village line started putting out these “flat” houses, only one or two a year, that you can actually hang on a wall. (They run on batteries, so no irritating dangling cords.) But I decided it might be fun to cram them into this otherwise somewhat useless small space that developed during foundation-laying this year.


Speaking of foundations, I’m sure you can see that we have some stabilization issues going on along the top row of houses, with buildings tilting this way and that. I can assure you that my Engineering team is not to blame for this situation. EVERYTHING is carefully leveled before the buildings are placed.


Therefore, my explanation is going to be that somehow Scotch the cat slipped into this room unnoticed at some point (probably when one of my relatives left the damn door open when they wandered out, because the cat is not allowed in here during village season), and that Scotch then spent several exhilarating moments swinging from the power cords that drop down behind this display. (When I take things down this year, I will probably also discover several tiny people who plummeted to their deaths as well.)


Oh, and just in case you’re wondering what I used to make these different elevations in the layout? Part of it is furniture, but most of it is me stacking the empty village boxes over and over (because they are rarely the same size) until I get a level surface. You gotta do what you gotta do. This villaging thing is serious business.

And here we have the hedonistic part of town. It’s a little hard to discern what’s going on, so let me spell it out for you: On the back row we have three breweries and a wine-tasting facility. Next row down, two pubs and a tavern. Bottom level, tons of restaurants. and I have personally given each of them a liquor license.


Clearly, this is where my people go to drink. You know it’s going to happen, so you might as well group these establishments all together so you can keep an eye on things. There’s also yet another train station on the far lower left, in case you need to get out of town in a hurry after the alcohol caused you to do something you shouldn’t have done and now people want to castrate you with farming implements.


To maintain law and order, or at least keep the paperwork moving after you are arrested, there is a courthouse on the right side of the second level. I seriously look out for my people, I really do. I am a good king, and there should be no need for uprisings and beheadings.

This is the “rustic” part of town, which translates into farmhouses, country stores, and an overwhelming number of barns. (In the far upper right of the shot, even though you can’t see it, lies the trashy mobile home that was my second indiscretion with Department 56. It appears that this pic was taken just as the gaudy blinking lights on the trailer were on the down-low.)


Which brings up a good point worth mentioning. At least a third of these structures are designed to blink their lights merrily whilst activated. Sadly, there’s no way to coordinate all of these so that each house blinks at exactly the same time. Therefore, any snapshots taken are subject to “brownouts” wherein it appears that we have power supply issues. This is not the case. The city budget is adequately funded for all utilities. Don’t believe any rumors and lies that you might hear.


And this bit you can’t see at all either, but in the upper left of this conglomeration, there is actually a replica of The Alamo that Terry found in, of all places, Wal-Mart. (Who knew?) This building is also the victim of coordinating the picture-taking with the blinking. Then again, there was no such thing as electricity during the Texas war of independence, so let’s just call it historic realism.

And finally we have this section of town, which has been dubbed the “A Christmas Story” subdivision. This was an easy name to come up with, mainly because many of the structures, including most of the upper row, are products from the Department 56 “specialty” brand that is only sold at Sear’s, and is based on the movie “A Christmas Story”, the one where the geeky blonde kid really wants that air rifle.


(If you zoom in really closely, on the third house from the right on the upper row, you can actually see a small model of Ralphie’s father opening that crate that had the leg lamp in it. Seriously.)


Moving to the front row, we have some reminders of my villaging sins. Second from the right is the Krispy Kreme shop, the first item I purchased that was NOT St. Nicholas Square, and thereby a symbol of me whoring myself for my art.


Moving further to the right, dead center on the front row, we have the infamous McDonald’s (see the golden arches on both sides?) that was the catalyst for me developing a sordid relationship with the gossipy, fake-blonde hypocrite in Duncanville known as Lou.


Yes, every single building has a story to go with it. This go around, I tried to keep it positive and life-affirming.


Next time? We dig deeper into the underbelly of this Peyton Place, and I tell amazing stories of sin and degradation.


I’m sure you can hardly wait…

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The Village of the Damned, Part 6

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So at this point in my unchecked fever to have the best village display ever, I had created a multi-ethnic mix of various product lines, with everyone living happily side by side in my little Christmas dominion. We are the World. Well, We are the Village, anyway. Baby steps.

And at the end of the day, I only had slight buyer’s remorse. Yes, I had shamelessly broadened my horizons by straying far and wide, snapping up anything I desired from a number of manufacturers. I had willingly entered into multiple intimate relationships. Sort of Mormon-esque, you might say. (Oh wait, they don’t do that polygamy thing anymore, do they? Just checking.)

In any case, I spent a ton of money that winter of madness, and I do believe I was personally responsible for keeping the American economy out of recession. Of course, no one thanked me for this great deed, but that’s fine, I prefer to make my philanthropic gestures in a quiet and discreet manner.

But it wasn’t ALL fun and games. As the season drew to an end and it became time for the sad but necessary dismantling of the village, I ran into the first seriously negative repercussion of my wanton lust for porcelain.

Where the hell was I going to put all this stuff until next year?

See, I had been using the main attic for Christmas storage. Initially, I had only needed a small portion of said attic for my village, and there was peace and harmony. But lately, things had been getting a bit cramped up there. And now I had an additional 25 or so boxes that needed a summer home.

Hmmm.

Thus began a major reconfiguration of storage options in our house. The central plank in this new urban vision was that the main attic would now be known as the Christmas attic. Only yuletide ware could be placed in this attic. Anything that did not fit into this category would have to live in the secondary attic over the garage, in one of the storage sheds out back, or would simply have to find a new home entirely, no matter how emotionally distressing this might prove to be.

Terry: “You need an entire attic for your village? Have you spoken to a counselor about this?”

Me: “It’s not JUST the village. There’s all that other stuff, the two trees, all the Christmas lights, the decorations, the wrapping paper. All of THAT can still go up there. The rest has to go.”

He just looked at me.

I just looked at him.

He finally flinched and wandered off, probably to get on the horn with one of his relatives and complain about the atrocious living conditions he was forced to endure. Or maybe he just went to see what was on TV. I don’t really know. But I do know that I was left to move around all this crap on my own. Which I suppose is just, since I was the one who had created the storage crisis in the first place. So there you have it.

And my supposedly innocent remarks that the main attic would be “for all things Christmas” have since proved to be evil falsehoods. Within the next few years, as the village population grew, the Christmas trees were shoved into the other attic, the Christmas lights were banished to a storage shed, and many treasured Christmas items that I thought I could never part with were downgraded to landfill occupants for gulls to pick at.

By the time the dust settled on LAST year’s holiday season, the only non-village items left in the main attic were a few boxes of wrapping paper and a handful of decorations that had survived the purging of heirlooms. These things were shoved in a tiny corner, surrounded by towering stacks of village boxes. I’m sure these poor guys were bullied all summer by the rowdy village boxes, with teasing and such. I don’t care. I love my village. At least until I find another obsession.

The situation DOWNstairs was just as grim. In the front room, which has basically been known as the Village Room for many years now, I was totally out of real estate. At the end of 2008’s village construction period, I had used up every available inch in the room. Buildings were shoved in every crevice imaginable, and even then, the previously-unimaginable could not be avoided:

After the frenzy of 2008’s purchases of new buildings and the resulting need for more space, I actually had to sit out a handful of older buildings. There was simply no room. This grieved me greatly, but it could not be avoided. Something would have to dramatically change in the next year, or I would be in a dire situation.

Flash forward to 2009.

It was crunch time. I had no available real estate. Yet I knew that I could not control myself as the new editions in my various product lines hit the stores. What to do?

First off, there was the season-opener race to Kohl’s to ensure that I quickly gained ownership of every new building that St. Nicholas Square was offering. There was no discussion on this matter. This is the one fundamental rule of my Christmas villaging that has not changed. I get everything in that line, every year. I don’t care what the obstacles are. This will happen, and it will happen with precision.

Luckily, I happened to enter Kohl’s at one of those rare moments when the store was not packed with 15,000 rude, screaming people fighting over something stupid like a toilet seat with a built-in stereo. In fact, it was eerily calm as I made my way to the Christmas section. There wasn’t a single soul in that department to challenge me in my quest.

Not sure what was up with that. I mean, it would be a nice ego boost if the locals had all finally realized after all these years that I would stop at nothing to secure ownership of everything St. Nicholas Square, and had organized a contingency plan if I happened to show up with my platinum credit card, ready to wreak havoc on the inventory.

(Betty Mae, sitting in her pickup truck in the Kohl’s parking lot, texting her best friend Louella Sue: “OMG! Brians here! We aint got a chance! Plan B! Go to IHOP for the prayer circle! Save the children!”)

Anyway, I managed to wrangle all the necessary village boxes to the front of the store, and amazingly only had a short wait until I reached the check-out counter. But, of course, there was still enough time for one of those annoying Kohl’s shoppers to think she could speak to me as if we were acquainted in any way.

Up hobbles this older woman, with her smelly coat, ugly shoes, and fake but shockingly vibrant auburn wig that looked like something a plumber would snake out of your toilet, gasping in shock. (Did that thing come with batteries? I can see the color from Nebraska.) And then, spying all my village boxes, says something that country folk always say, thinking they are being funny and original: “Did you leave any for me?”

I just glare at Simply Red. “No. I did not. There’s nothing left. Go home. Pray that Jesus didn’t see you wearing that thing.”

Anyway, I make it through the check-out line (Don’t forget to stack your coupons! I got that batch at 40% off sticker price. Never pay full retail at Kohl‘s!) and lug everything to the car. I race home with a frenzy, ignoring all traffic considerations such as stop lights, proper lane-changing etiquette, and the simple courtesy of acknowledging that there are other drivers on the rode besides myself. (In other words, I drove like a Texan.)

Yet as I pulled into the driveway at home, I realized that my over-exuberance had its limits. Namely, there was no point in dragging the new possessions into the house, because there was simply nowhere to put them. I would just have to drag them out of the way when I began the village layout. And once construction started, even more older houses would have to be sent to the bench, a painful realization that I didn’t want to accept.

Drastic measures were needed. I had to strategize.

First step, I stood on the patio and smoked a cigarette. In the overall scheme of things, this had relatively little productive value, but it was important for me. When the wheels of my mind are spinning madly, trying to gain ground on whatever though process I’m engaged in, the nicotine does something for me. It’s a focus agent.

As a thin plume of blue-gray smoke wafted upwards, I analyzed the previous years of real estate layout in the front room. I was already at the point where most of the furniture in the room was being utilized for the village in some way. But then it hit me that there were two holdouts.

The couches. There were two couches in the room that I had previously just covered with sheets (fake snow!) because I hadn’t realized their true potential. There had to be some way to…

I stabbed out my cigarette and thundered into the house, terrifying Scotch the Simple Cat and sending him scurrying to parts unknown. I threw open one of the pocket doors to the front room and marched inside. My mind clicking with inspiration, I snatched all the pillows off one of the couches, tossing them to the side. I located one of the many folding tables I had acquired over the years as annexed real estate, this particular model being a 2X6 foot contraption with special legs that could be extended if needed.

I unfolded the table, ratcheted the legs out to the longest length, hoisted the thing in the air, and then carefully lowered the table, long-wise, over one of the couches. The legs on both sides just barely touched the floor in front and behind the couch, with millimeters to spare.

Bingo.

More real estate.

Problem potentially solved.

I needed more of this exact table. Was this a possibility? Since it had been a while since I purchased this particular model, it took me a while to remember that I had purchased them from Sam’s Club on a whim several years earlier. Once I realized this, I raided Sam’s and was astounded to find they still had the same model. I threw those things into my industrial shopping cart like a man possessed.

A few days later, it was time for the official village construction to commence. Here’s another sad thing (if you choose to perceive it in that way) about my village addiction: I take two full weeks off from work around Thanksgiving in order to work on the village. Okay, this time is not ALL about the village, I also shop for presents and decorate the rest of the house, but really, we all know the focus is on the village.

This process takes time to do it right. But by no means is this a burden in any way. As I’ve mentioned before, Christmas is a very special time for me. And those two weeks around Thanksgiving find me at my happiest, working on a village that brings me warmth. It’s personal, a time for me to cherish a thing that is close to my heart. Every single piece is precisely placed for my own satisfaction. I honestly don’t care if no one else in the world ever sees my efforts. It’s for me. And shouldn’t we all do something just for ourselves?

But now you can get a glimpse as well. Nothing beats seeing the real thing, but pictures can take you close. The following snap is courtesy of my sister Dawn, an ace photographer. (Have you ever tried shooting in total darkness where you can’t use a flash? Tough job.) It’s actually just a small portion of the village, and we’ll see more in the next post, but I absolutely love this shot. The mood and lighting is perfect, and if you look really closely, you can actually see my reflection in one of the mirrors on the far wall, second from the left (click on the pic to see a larger version).

Me and my village….

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The Village of the Damned, Part 5

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So I race home in my car loaded down with the slightly illicit stash of goods from Lou’s Emporium of Budget Miniature Housing and Questionable Moral Values, in an overly giddy mood about the prospects of what I might do with my new children.

Since I am having to maneuver my vehicle through the transitional Dark Hell traffic where laid-back country folk are competing on the roads with angry big-city people in ginormous SUV’s that they don’t really need, this journey takes a bit longer than I would hope, and I have a few minutes to reflect on the current state of my Village addiction.

Let’s see.

As I have mentioned before in this current cycle of stories concerning me and my fondness for toy houses that light up, the fourth official season of the Christmas Village was the one wherein I lost all reason and objectivity. It was a spiral of shame that has repercussions to this day.

First, there was my infidelity. Yes, I had cheated on my beloved St. Nicholas Square collection from Kohl’s, stepping out a few times on the side with some Department 56 tramps. It was sordid and distasteful, but at least it had only been brief flings with single houses at a time.

Now I had purchased an entire harem of Department 56 sluts, and was in the process of dragging these trollops back to the house and parading them around in front of my betrothed, the St. Nicholas Square buildings, lovely porcelain beings who had done nothing but faithfully serve me over the years with their cuteness and electrical joy.

There was bound to be talk in the Village neighborhood, with the established residents quite perturbed and outraged, huddling in groups to gossip about the audaciousness of these new houses, with their flashy detailing and obvious snooty, moneyed background. A class war could easily erupt, with citizens spilling into the streets, waving hand-painted signs to express their dissatisfaction.

I had to proceed carefully. Yes, I had sinned and strayed, but the deed was done and we all just had to get along. I would have to go before the city planning commission to ensure that all needs were met. I really did not relish the possibility of having to declare martial law and lock down the city after curfew. That would be sordid and tacky.

So once I arrived home, I immediately went on a Public Relations offensive, taking careful steps to show that I was not playing favorites. All my children were equal. I marched into the Village Staging Area in the front room, where no urban development had yet taken place this year. We were still in the pre-deployment stage, with stacks of boxed houses all over the room. No furniture had yet been transformed into real estate.

As I entered the room, carefully transporting three of the new housing boxes, there was a collective gasp from the tenured stacks of housing. What is going ON? Why is he bringing THREE of those fancy things up in here? This be the hood. We ghetto village from Kohl’s. Why you frontin?

I ignored the cries of outrage and placed the boxes in one of the few clear spaces left on the floor, then proceeded to gather the other boxes from the car until all seven newbies were stacked in a little pile. The tension in the air was thick, and I had to make a move to prove gentle but firm dominance.

I took one of the white sheets I use for “fake snow ground” and covered the new arrivals, instantly dimming any haughty shimmer they might have, in a move meant to convey that I didn’t care for these new intruders any more than I did for my loving older offspring. All were equal.

At first, this seemed to placate the unruly crowd.

Then there was a very tiny voice from UNDER the white sheet.

“Oh no he DIDN’T! You don‘t cover ME!”

Uh oh. See, you bring in these pampered kids that have lived a life of luxury in fancy stores with high prices, and they just don’t know how to act in the real world, especially when that real world involves bargain miniature housing from discount stores. Was there going to be a riot after all?

Gratefully, there was an equally tiny smack as some level-headed occupant of the fancy houses under the sheet slapped the spoiled Muffy and shut her up. This slapper was a wise person. You might be made of the finest porcelain in the world, but the seven of you (okay, nine of you, if you count my two former indiscretions) don’t stand a chance against an angry mob of at least 65 houses built of cheaper but very bitter porcelain.

No more words came from the shrouded seven boxes.

And eventually, the rest of the room settled down.

We were okay for now. No impending genocide.

But did I learn anything from this incident? Of course not. I was on a bender that year. Some kind of fire had been lit, and I was running with it. I had an insatiable need for more housing. And sadly, there were a number of convenient outlets more than happy to satisfy my wicked, carnal desires.

The next fail point was when I discovered that the Michael’s chain, that distributor of irritating crafting products, with things like fake flowers and glue guns, also carried a line of Christmas housing. Normally, I would never consider venturing into a store that reeked of the desperation of bored people seeking out something insipid to do just to pass the time.

But there was a sale ad in the Sunday paper that caught my eye. A big ole display of little Christmas houses, looking cute as hell in that manipulated way that all sale circulars have, where something looks magnificent until you actually cast your eyes upon said objects in the store. I should have blown it off right then. This was a craft store. How could this possibly satisfy me?

But I didn’t blow it off. I headed to the nearest Michael’s. Low and behold, they had a huge selection of housing shooting out their ass. All kinds of interesting stuff. Now, this product line is not always top quality, by any means. (For those of you in the know about such things, the Michael’s line is manufactured by Lemax. Lemax is hit and miss. One house can be stunning, the next house is total crap. Whoever is in charge of production should be fired. Just sayin.)

And, it must be noted, the Lemax line is on a smaller scale than St. Nicholas Square or Department 56. Things are therefore out of proportion. You have to be very careful when mixing this line with the other two, or things just end up looking stupid and your village sucks.

This little proportion glitch didn’t stop me, of course. Who cares about minor things like that when you’re gay? We have genes that no other marketing segment has been blessed with. We can take crap and turn it into fine art within seconds. It’s just what we do.

I believe I only purchased five houses whilst breaking my virginity with Michael’s. Granted, I was cheating on St. Nicholas Square once again, but really, that barn door was already open. I had to let go of the guilt, and be free. It took about three seconds for me to do this.

A few days later, Terry and I are in Lowe’s, that bastion of home-improvement and do-it-yourself mania. I don’t know what we were looking for. In fact, I don’t know why we were even there together. We never agree on anything when we’re in that store. He wants track lighting, I want sconces. He wants a hot tub, I just want to make sure the toilets flush properly. You know how it goes.

Anyway, I grow bored with whatever item we might be arguing about, and I head out to their Christmas area. I’m used to this being a place of Christmas trees, decorations, and power cords. Then I turn a corner and I’m stunned.

Lowe’s now has a Christmas village line.

This one’s called Carole Towne. I guess the extra “E’s” were meant to convey classiness, don’t really know. I do know that they had some things I desperately wanted. Somebody was feeding me an enchanting supply of smack once again. And junkie that I am, I raced forward with my hand in the air.

And we left that establishment with yet another stack of village housing.

So we get all this crap home, and now there are piles of boxes all over the front room, otherwise known as the Village Room. Terry, trying to inject some sanity into my madness, calmly asks: “How are you going to make this happen? There’s only so much room.”

I just look at him. How can he doubt me? This is one thing I can do, and do it with astonishing skill and prowess. Don’t mess with me. I just as calmly advise him to go watch “Titanic” for the 300th time (did anybody mention obsessions?) and don’t expect to see me for a week.

Then I slam the door and get to work.

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The Village of the Damned, Part 4

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  And thus began a satanic pact between a gossipy Southern gal with strong hypocritical tendencies and the  City Slicker from southern Dallas who may or may not have evil intentions but certainly has an obsessive-compulsive shopping disorder.

  Okay, it wasn’t a pact, really, but more of an instant mutual recognition that we could satisfy at least one of each other’s desires despite huge cultural differences. She wanted money, and I had some I could give her.

  I started going through the immense stacks of boxes, carefully reviewing the contents, and shoving select items into a pile that I clearly intended to keep as my own after an appropriate financial transaction. She started salivating, absently wiping away a line of drool before it could burn a furrow into the thick layer of facial makeup that did not match the rest of her skin tone.

  (What is it with that subset of certain older, Southern women who simply refuse to understand the basics of makeup selection and application? How did they learn this horrid plaster technique, where all the colors are wrong and they end up looking like a moist, demented china doll that has gone sour after prolonged exposure to the heat?

  I mean, they had to have stood in front of a mirror at some point during the process. How can they not realize that something has gone terribly wrong, and that they do not look appealing in any way whatsoever? Sweetie,  nobody’s gonna hit on THAT. Dial it down, for God’s sake.)

  Anyway, after an extended period of review and consideration, I had a stack of seven boxes placed in my “cannot live without this” pile. Lou was visibly trembling with anticipation, a small part of her fighting back the gnawing fear that I was just toying with her and would suddenly march out the door and truly start selling drugs like she had originally assumed was my mission when I blew into town with my city ways.

  But no, I had made up my mind, these were the things I wanted. For now. This place was too rich with treasure for just one visit. I would be back. Of course, I wasn’t going to let her in on this part of it, so that when I DID return, perhaps she would be so overcome that there would be an even better discount the next time around. We were already in full co-dependency mode, feeding off each others’ desires and learning to manipulate them, even though one hour ago we knew nothing of each other.

  We carried my selections to the check-out area, where Lou proceeded to ring me up with shaky fingers on the ancient cash register. The sum total was around 300 dollars, an amount which can be perceived in two ways. One interpretation is that I was out of my mind and in the full throes of addiction. The other is that I had found a damn good deal, because this same stack would have run 600 dollars at the snootier Hallmarks where sale prices are considered tacky and verboten. I prefer to think of my glass as half full, thank you very much.

  As I signed my life away on the little charge slip, Lou suddenly realized that she didn’t have any sacks large enough to hold all these boxes. After all, she was used to selling a single greeting card at a time, or perhaps one of the Christmas ornaments made out of rusty gun parts. These things fit into the typical cute little Hallmark sacks. Small buildings, especially several of them, did not. I would have to carry them out of the store one or two at a time.

  Perhaps sensing that this lack of proper transport materials might prove to be a deal-breaker even this late in the game, Lou slightly panicked. She began to sweat a bit, thereby increasing the already astounding humidity level of her facial makeup to astronomical heights. She was no longer somewhat frighteningly dewy. She was now this shimmering mass of  undulating liquid that could burst at any moment, instantly drowning small towns downstream in a thundering flash flood..

  Lou apologized profusely. She once again commented me on my particular choices and just KNEW they were going to look SO cute. Grasping at straws, she quickly selected a bookmark which she placed on top of one of the boxes as a wonderful gift with purchase, beaming at me with what she assumed was a winning smile. (At least I think it was a smile. Hard to tell, what with all that molten lava flowing around on her face.)

  I glanced briefly at the bookmark. It was one of those cheesy gold-glitter things, with a tacky tassel and a bible quote of some kind, a message that was probably advising me to give up my life of sin and go begat some little cherubs to fill up some of the half-empty churches around here. The production cost of said bookmark was probably 2 cents.

  Weak move, Lou. Don’t really want it, certainly don’t need it, and the tawdriness of your desperate proffering is an affront to my precisely-tuned gay appreciation of the finer things in life. Expensive porcelain housing? Praise be. Cheap paper products bearing scripture declaiming things that I have probably already done at least twice today? Cast them out.

  But it was really no big deal. I was not offended in the least by having to carry out my items in multiple trips. In fact, I’d actually prefer this slower but safer process when compared to poorly-educated and uncaring mutants cramming my purchases in an overstuffed plastic bag and then shoving the mess at me with a belch of insolence, which is the normal shopping experience in these days where common courtesy is lost on the young and the stupid.

  Then Lou apparently had an inspired idea. She turned her wobbly head toward the back of the store and shrieked out a few words.

  This sound she emitted might have been a name, but I didn’t quite catch it. “Rebar”? Maybe “Tree Car”? I don’t really know. If it WAS a name, it wasn’t something respectable like John or Sally. It might have been one of those intricate Southern names with too many syllables, so that if you suddenly shriek this name in an enclosed space, it sounds more like you’ve just had a small seizure rather than you attempting to address an acquaintance or relative.

  But I guess it was a name after all, because there was stirring in the back room, and a large shape appeared and began meandering through the various poorly-planned aisles. The shape came into full view after fighting his way through the sickly stench surrounding the Candles of the Apostles display.

  This was a boy who appeared to be about 16. He also appeared to have just consumed a Pinto station wagon.

  Lou beamed at him with undiluted fakery. “Honey, can you help this nice man carry his things out to his car?”

  Now she thinks I arrived in a car. Previously, she was convinced that I thundered into town in the back of Satan’s Hummer, which is now double-parked in front of Wal-Mart while the evil minions transform the shoppers into alcoholic, drug-smacking liberals who think it’s okay for women to have the right to vote.

  Honey just looks at her. Then he looks at me. Then he sighs, and with what is apparently a tremendous amount of effort, he picks up the smallest box and heads to the front door, stomping along in his over-priced, unlaced and irritatingly ugly tennis shoes. See, I told you, kids these days are rude, stupid, and over-fed.

  Anyway, I pick up THREE of the boxes with relative ease, and putter along behind Pinto and his pointless attitude. As I exit the door, I duck down just in time to avoid the deadly bell guillotine. Lou has GOT to do something about that thing. Can you imagine being killed in a Hallmark? There’s just nothing redeeming about that.

  Pinto is standing on the sidewalk, holding the single box out in front of him like it contains fish bait that has expired, and furtively looking around to ensure none of his XBOX friends have spotted him holding something so girly. He glances back in the store with a look of pure hatred for Lou.

  Really? Has a problem with this, does he? Hmm. Perhaps I should pretend that I can’t find my car. Maybe ask him out on a date. (“All the pie you can eat, then we can go back to my place!”) Ramp up his freak-out factor until he can’t even speak, just quiver.

  Then from somewhere comes a brief moment of compassion. He is what he is. I am what I am. You can’t expect everyone to realize that acceptance and decency is the better part of grace. You would think we would all know that by now. Then again, mankind has had thousands of years to perfect the art of intimidation by differentiation. Make your neighbor different, hold it up to the light and criticize, and somehow justify that this makes you better. And find someone who agrees to agree with your pointless point. And now you have power over the other guy.

  Sound familiar? There are supposed “leaders” in this country focused on doing just that, divide, separate, conquer. So my hope for 2010: As a people, as a world, we continue with the tiny steps down the road to day when all humans respect all humans, regardless of color, creed, beliefs, the flavor of the person they love, or choice of fashion accessories. Keep the faith.

  Then my Gandhi moment quickly passes.

  As I head toward Pinto and his squirmy holding of my girly porcelain house, I pull out my car keys and hit the button on the fob that opens the trunk. The trunk of the car directly in front of Pinto. Click. The trunk is wide open, in clear view of everybody.

  He clears his throat. “So, man, which car is yours?”

  Dear Gawd. HOW can he be asking that? My thoughts of universal acceptance of my fellow man are swirling down the drain.  I don’t WANT this fellow man to be a part of my future in any way. I’m not believing this.

  Breathe.

  Put yourself in his shoes.

  Okay. “Dude, it’s this car right here. See, I can open the trunk by pushing this button on my key chain. That’s why the trunk is already open. Maybe you didn’t see that.”

  Pinto looks around the entire parking lot, then somehow manages to focus on the car in front of him, the only one with the open trunk. I push the button again, just so there’s that empty clicking noise from the car that says “dumbass, you already pushed me once, what is your deal?”

  Pinto sees the light. “Dude, that is SO sweet. I want a car like that. What kind of car is this? Do you have to pay for that? Does that take batteries? Man, I’m always runnin out of batteries, all the time.”

  Truer words were never spoken, me thinks.

  But the ice has been broken. We talk about cars for a bit, with me acting all butch when I really don’t know anything about cars except how much they cost, and him talking about saving money for his own wheels. It’s hard to save money. Yeah, I know, but you can do it. Then he finally heads back inside for more of the boxes while I carefully position things in the trunk so there’s minimal bouncing around and potential damage.

  Pinto quickly returns, this time carrying all three of the remaining boxes, walking carefully and gingerly handing them to me so I can secure them. We’re good to go, but he lingers for a bit. He still wants to talk, not sure why.

  “Dude, that McDonald’s one is pretty cool.”

  “Yeah, I really like it. Glad you guys had it.”

  “It’s got a chip, though. Did you know that? That one’s been around a long time. Nobody wants it cause of the chip.”

  “Well, that chip doesn’t bother me. I can fix it up, no prob. Little bit of glue. Done.”

  “Yeah, that’s cool.”

  He stands there a bit longer, while I finish moving things around until I’m satisfied about minimizing breakage, then I close the trunk lid with another click. “Well, thanks for your help.”

  He kind of jiggles his head, like he’s been thinking of lots of things, beyond just porcelain products and remote-controlled trunks. “Cool. Okay, guess I’ll head back in.” And he turns and moseys back to the front door, dipping down to avoid the guillotine door bell.

  We all have our chips, right? And we all have our glue. So somehow we make it work. But hopefully, some day, we’ll realize that the chips make us unique. Because really, isn’t perfection boring?

  Dude.

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The Village of the Damned, Part 3

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  I squealed into the parking lot in front of Lou’s Hallmark, careening into an available slot and nearly sending myself through the windshield when I was overly enthusiastic and yanked on the parking brake before the car had even come to a halt. I leaped out, slammed the car door, and raced toward the entrance.

  Just a few paces before the actual front door, I made myself slow down and appear casual, as if I had merely been strolling through the neighborhood on my way to an art exhibit concerning the work of someone French when I managed to stumbled upon this quaint little shop.

  I pulled open the door and was nearly beheaded by a giant bell as it swung wildly, clanging away and announcing my arrival. This thing was huge, and it put some actual church bells to shame. Apparently Lou or one of his or her employees was hard of hearing, or perhaps they spent a lot of time in the back room of the place, doing whatever it is that the people of Duncanville might do when bored in their retail establishments.

  In any case, I sauntered in, not wanting to appear too anxious, on the off chance that Lou had some natural predatory instincts and would be able to smell my desperation and need if I wasn’t careful. One and a half seconds after stepping into the store, I realized that no one in this store would be able to smell anything other then the overwhelming sickly-sweet smell of flowery candles designed to entice elderly women on their way home from the Ladies Auxiliary luncheon at Cracker Barrel.

  With the right humidity and wind strength, that stench could take a life.

  “Hello,” said a female voice, from the direction of what appeared to be a centralized check-out area. There stood a very squat woman, with a dyed mess of unnatural blonde hair teased and jacked to the ceiling in that small-town Texas manner, pausing to look my way and greet me in the midst of her fiddling with a bit of ribbon on some foo-foo knick-knack lying on the counter. “Can I help you find something?”

  And I responded with that universal lie that some of us always use, “Oh, I’m just looking around, but thank you” which roughly translates as “I am one of those people that does not want sales clerks hovering in any way while I review the merchandise. Do not approach me unless I give some indication that I need assistance or it appears that I may have injured myself and require medical attention.”

  She smiled primly in a manner that indicated she did not think my response warranted a smile at all. “I see. Well, then. If you have any questions, just let me know.” Then she picked up the knick-knack and relocated to the opposite counter in her little square box of operations so that I was no longer in her direct line of sight. I had been dismissed.

  What the hell was that? I hadn’t been overtly rude or anything, but apparently she thought so.

  Just then, there was another near-decapitation at the door , and in clattered a woman sporting Exhibit B in what was quickly becoming an impromptu review of jacked-to-Jesus hairstyles. “Lou!” screamed this overly-coiffed new arrival. “How ARE you, honey?” (Ah. So now we had an ID on Lou and her gender.)

  Back at the counter, Lou tossed aside the lame ribbon thing without a second thought. “Betty Jean! What are you up to today?”

  Betty Jean sashayed her way to the counter, and clunked down a purse that sounded like it contained spare car parts. “Oh, honey. I was about to take a covered dish over to Delilah’s house, see how she was doin and all, then I thought, why, I better get her a nice card.”

  Lou immediately selected an obviously fake expression of sympathy, but other than that she was clearly now engaging in one of her favorite sports: Gossiping with town folk about OTHER town folk. “Poor Delilah. It’s such a shame, what happened. I know her heart is heavy. I prayed for her just this morning.”

  “Oh, I know, I know,” oozed Betty Jean, leaning in conspiratorially. “I have been prayin non-STOP, I tell you. Lord. You think you know people and then they go and do something like THAT.”

  “Oh, honey, I was SO surprised to hear about it. Myrna called me the second she heard. I could not BELIEVE it.”

  And at that point, honey, I quit listening. I’m from a small conservative town. I know this type of conversation. It’s not WHAT they are talking about that’s important, it’s the fact that they HAVE something to talk about concerning other peoples’ lives and not their own. It didn’t matter if Delilah had an awkward death in the family, had a son that got caught being friendly with a sheep, or if Delilah got kicked out of Prayer Circle because she let slip that she thought that the Democrat that moved in over on Parker Road was really kind of nice.

  But their conversation did serve a purpose in that it reminded me of small-town protocols. There are certain ways you act, and certain ways you don’t. 

  When I first strolled in the guillotine door, and Lou greeted me, I should have acted like we were best friends even though we had never met. This is in the handbook. You are supposed to shoot fake pleasantries out your ass even though everyone knows you don’t mean it. It’s just what you do, like going to church on Wednesday or pretending to hope that your neighbor’s daughter  really does win Butter Queen at the fall festival instead of your own slutty offspring.

  By not following the rules, Lou (and Betty Jean, just as soon as Lou could whisper it to her in a shocked but hushed tone) knew that I was not from around here. Their instincts alerted them to the fact that I was most likely a hooligan from Dallas, that City of Sin to the northeast. As soon as they finished whispering, and were then pretending to be interested in a Christian air freshener (smells just like a Disciple!), they both began to eye me with their primitive and naïve observational skills.

  Which really made me feel welcome, of course. There’s nothing quite as refreshing as being closely observed by primates that still think the world is flat, scanning my arms for signs of tattoos and needle marks, convinced that I am here to do the Devil’s work and that the children of Duncanville were in danger of being coerced into a life of evil and non-Republican values.

  I was ready to walk out the door. I fully understand that people will have differences of opinion concerning moral conduct, societal interaction and the evolution of mankind. What I can’t stomach are people that have no understanding of the details surrounding those three topics yet insist on acting as if they do. Hypocrisy in a Small Town. I could blog on that topic the rest of my life and still come up with something fresh every day.

  But, to give this whole situation a fair shake, I kept wandering around the aisles of Lou’s Golden Hallmark, delving deeper into the store, fighting my way past glass cases full of Precious Moments figurines (blech!), hand-crafted religious artwork composed of barbed wire and gun parts (are you SERIOUS?), and a whole section devoted to God’s Fruits of the Month.

  I could go so many ways with that last bit that I won’t even try.

  Then I turned a final corner and found myself up against a wall of shelves running the entire length of the eastern edge of the store. Every inch of these shelves was crammed with countless boxes of Department 56 buildings and accessories. An entire wall, people. Riches as far as you could see in either direction.

  I grabbed a random box off one of the shelves and reviewed the price tag. It was 40 percent off. 40 percent off a Department 56 product, BEFORE Christmas. This just didn’t happen in real life. I was in another dimension, thanks to the kind, insightful words of a fabulous woman with amazing lipstick skills.

  There was a clang from the guillotine door as Betty Jean moseyed out to offer pretend condolences to whatever Delilah or a family member may have done. Then I heard pitty-pat footsteps as someone approached my location in the store.

  Lou, and her jacked-up hair, peeked around a corner aisle. “See anything that you like?”

  Oh really? You’re going to be nice to me, now that I have actually touched one of your products and might actually make a purchase instead of just destroying the morals of your entire community? So commerce trumps all? Great. Get ready to negotiate, Clairol Number 57. I ain’t scared a you.

  “Well, I don’t know. What else do you have?”

  Lou smiles sweetly.  “Follow me.”

  Aw hell. What have I done?

  I have to remain calm. I was already in a frenzy with what I had seen on eastern wall. I could be quite happy picking from that fruit. If she was going to show me something even more enticing, I might lose my mind. And I certainly didn’t want to do that in Duncanville. I have my standards.

  We meandered across the store, weaving in and out of the aisles, because there was no such thing as a straight shot in this place. They purposely design the layout to be as confusing as possible so that you will resort to buying something just to get directions to the front door.

  As we stomped through a section devoted to Mary Magdalene etchings from famous churches, we encountered an amazingly tall woman dressed in black and apparently determined to avoid makeup or accessories of any kind. She was fondling a Mary sketch and looking around furtively. I was slightly scared of her for a reason I couldn’t quite define. I just know crazy when I smell it.

  “Why, hi there, Virginia,” chirped Lou. “How’s the goiter? Don’t forget, the Mary sale ends tomorrow. Don’t wait too long.”

  Virginia? Of course she would be named that. No man would ever dip his wick in that mess.

  Then we were plowing our way through a lamb farm of some kind. Lambs made out of cotton and tongue depressors. Lambs made out of corn husks and twine. Lambs made out of sausage casings and spent gun shells. Holy cow, people in small towns sure had a lot of time on their hands. You’d think they might spend a few minutes educating their children beyond the eighth grade, but I guess it didn’t cross their minds.

  Finally, we turn a last corner, and we’re standing at an apparent spare check-out counter that hadn’t seen any financial activity since Nixon was in office. Instead, the counter was piled high with Department 56 boxes. As well as the floor in front of it. Actually, “piled” is too weak of a word for this situation. There were mounds and mounds of precariously-stacked boxes in all directions, many of them faded with time.

  But they were all Department 56, some of them with box designs that hadn’t been used in twenty years.

  How could this be real?

  Lou simply smiled at me, with just a touch of wickedness in the tiny corners of her devout and Christian mouth. “I’ll just head over here for a bit. You let me know if you see something that catches your eye.” Then she trottled off to make sure that Virginia still had an intact hymen in the Mary Magdalene aisle.

  She had snared me the second I walked in the guillotine door, and she knew it. Damn her.

  I cautiously approached the nearest stack of boxes. There was a bit of dust here and there, but you could tell that most of the items had been pawed many times over the years, as people pondered purchasing these treasures or making their house payment.

  I randomly grabbed a box and studied it. It was a replica of a 1950’s McDonald’s restaurant. Being a Department 56 obsessive, I knew that this thing had not been on the market for twenty years. Yet I was holding one in my hands.

  There was a small notation written on the box, either by Lou or one of her Christian servants. “Small chip on corner. Chip still in box.” And the price was marked down 50 percent. Emboldened and slightly delirious, I opened the box to inspect the damage. The chip was tiny, just a smidge of exposed inner porcelain, and the smidge was enclosed in a cute little baggy. Easily fixed with a bit of glue and you would never know the difference.

  This woman was a professional.

  I checked another box. This was the “Rollerama” skating rink that hadn’t been seen in at least 15 years. Pristine condition, 40 percent off. My mind was turning into jelly at all these wonders.

  Just then, there came a clang from the guillotine front door as the presumably still-virginal Virginia made her exit. “Praise Jesus!” screeched Lou, back at command central in the middle of the store.

  So now I had to make a decision. Should I give in to my lust for Department 56 and financially support these warped people with their backward ways and ability to create Christian symbols out of feminine hygiene products and glitter, or do I save my money for more progressive establishments, which would be the right thing to do?

  Then I suddenly noticed a man standing right beside me. I don’t know where he came from, he was just there. The front door hadn’t opened recently other than to allow the Black Virgin out, so he had to have been in the store for a while, or he lived here. Not sure.

  He smiled at me. “That’s a real nice piece you got there.” This startled me for a moment, until I realized that he was talking about the Rollerama and not anything more personal. “Been wonderin when that one would finally go.”

  Then he leaned in and said in a conspiratorial whisper: “Don’t mind Lou. Half of that is for show. She ain’t bad.” Then he grinned, and instinct told me that he was married to Clairol No. 57. And that HE was the one who had saved the McDonald’s chip. And then he winked.

  Birds of a feather? Maybe.

  I was released of any moral obligations, or so I thought, and was ready to buy out the entire store. And I could fudge things a bit if I needed to.

  “Lou!” I screamed out. “I think I found something!”

  She was instantly by my side, ready to assist in any way.

  Yes, I felt a little bit dirty.

  But I really wanted that McDonald’s.

  Word.

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