At a sprawling, rickety amalgam of shops catering to handcrafters and antiques and uniques called Artisan's Alley. 
Old dolls creep me out. Hell, Bratz™ creep me out.
I hate the Cabbage Patch™ dolls not only because they are wicked fugly, but because on that certain Christmas many years ago when they were new and caused a must-have-frenzy I was the 19 yr old longhaired metalguy warehouse manager at a department store.
There was the constant stream of psychotic moms harassing the floor staff--who then called me to see if there were any more in the back--knowing there weren't but trying to avoid abuse by doing something.
Even worse were the Mommys offering me bribes of cash or drugs or you-know-what to set a few aside and deal them out the warehouse door.
It was the second Christmas where I lost some of my repect for people and the way they deal with the Holiday Season, where I learned that mothers are people, too.
Just as fucked-up as anyone else, only with kids.
No pedestals for anyone after that December.
The first Christmas when this happened, I was a Mall Santa.
The stories I could tell...
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