From now on, I’m celebrating Christmas in the first week of January--because you can just walk down the street along the curb and, hey, free Christmas trees.

Despite the easy and convenient savings, some people are afraid to use supermarket cards because they don’t want a monolithic corporation to track their buying habits.

I don’t really care about that.  If General Foods wants to know that I like raisin bran, they can just go on with their bad selves.  I use my Safeway card because it saves me money.

At least, that’s what I thought I thought.

After the third time the clerk said “Thank you for shopping with us, Mr. Jackson,” I realized that something had happened.  Some H.A.L.-like glitch had screwed up their database.  I had been assigned to someone else’s card.

Which meant I was free!

I could buy anything I wanted and no one would know.  I could do nothing but load up my shopping card with glorious, beautiful artichokes.  I could do it every day.  I could do it for weeks.  And never once would a representative from the Mushroom Company call me and whine at me: “Fungus is cute and fluffy.  Everyone else loves mushrooms.  Why don’t you?  What does it take?”

I was ecstatic.  That is, until I realized that if I was assigned to someone else’s card, that means someone else is assigned to mine.

Someone is doing their shopping under my name.

And now I live in fear.  I barely sleep.  Because I know that the feds are going to bang on my door in the middle of the night:  “Mr. Howard, we’re very disturbed by what these electronic receipts reveal.  Despite being a grown man, you buy a copy of Teen People every week.  And don’t think we don’t know that nectarines, baking soda, and non-dairy creamer can be combined to create a very powerful terrorist-style explosion.”

In a month or two I’m attending one of those “how to be a parent” classes so I can help take care of my niece-to-be.  The class I’m taking pertains to diapers, proper holding, stuff like that.  I really wanted to take the class before that one, but I was informed that it would be silly for me to learn about breast feeding.  (I had misheard the topic; I thought it was about “kneading.")

I’m particularly anxious to learn about the proper holding of the baby.  Working at an office where there’s a least two pregnant women 365 days a year, I’m often asked by proud mothers if I want to hold their baby.  Now, when faced with a delicate social request such as this one, I know exactly what to do.  I scream “OH!  OH!  I APPEAR TO HAVE RUPTURED A SPLEEN.” Then I drop the floor and thrash around.  By the time I open my eyes, everyone’s gone.  Problem solved.

You might wonder why I have such a fear of holding a baby.  It’s just that I know you’re supposed to hold a baby in a special way, and to me there’s only one “special hold” I know--a bowling ball.  I remember being around five and being taught to stick my fingers in the two small holes and my thumb in the large one.  What’s that, you say?  A baby is nothing like a bowling ball?  Look closer.  They have two nostrils.  And a mouth.

So I’m always afraid that a beaming mother will hand over her baby, and I’ll instantly react in “special hold” mode, and I’ll scoop the baby into the air using my right hand: “Now I get to keep her for a few turns, right?  Because I need to warm up and practice.  For some reason, my first throw is always a gutterbaby.”

Cashier: You’re using your debit card?  Fine.  And may I please see some I.D.?

Me: ......huh?

Cashier: I need to see some I.D., please.

Me: Oh.  Right.  How silly of me to forget.  And God Bless you.

Annoying Bozo in Line Next to Me: Aww, whatever, she’s just trying to rack up the compliments and gratitude in advance of 2004, aren’t you, hahahahahahaha.

Cashier: Listen, honey, I don’t care what you call it.  This ain’t the time of year I need to get socked with a $1,000 fine.

Me: Yeah, lay off her.  The nice, smart lady is just doing her job as she runs the best cash register in the entire city.