It's 5:30 in the morning, a time which never should have been invented by the way, and I'm sitting with my laptop outside of Yankee Candle waiting for the salesgirls to show up. I check my preferred customer coupon again. Frick. The store doesn't open until 8 AM, even for those of us who bleed Yankee.
The manager shows up, notes my position in line - okay I am the line - and gives me a frightened smile as she rushes inside, locking the door behind her. She's had candle stalkers before. And I'm sure she's heard of me.
I'm not sure when I got addicted to Yankees. Or even why. I remember passing one in the mall, and though I am not a huge shopper, I felt the irresistible urge to go inside. I think it was the banana cream pie scent that did it. While I'm not a huge shopper, I do love food. Especially junk food.
It was around Halloween and they had all these super cutsie skeleton candle holders and I found myself oohing and awing over every one. Plus, they had thousands, and I mean thousands of candles in every size, scent, and color. It was like being in a candy shop. It even smelled like a candy shop. Except you don't want to eat them. Trust me on this.
So, fast forward three years and I am an official addict. Every time I get a coupon in my email I pull my husband to the store and demand he help me pick out some scents. Not that it matters. He only goes for one scent, The Pink Sands, which he proudly burns in his man cave. He made a mistake once and bought the Pink Lady Slippers. I had loads of fun with that. But that's another story.
But what I really live for are these 'semi-annual' clearance sales. That's when they all go 75% off. I can fill a few closets with these in just a day or two of shopping. I also hide them under beds and in storage units. It's a sickness, and one my husband knows about, but doesn't 'really' know about. Some things in marriage should remain a mystery.
I burn the lavender-vanillas at nap time. If you ever want to sink into a very deep sleep and have these amazing macabre Alice in Wonderland type dreams, burn vanilla-lavender. It's like a PCP trip without the legal repercussions.
I burn the pie scented candles in the kitchen. If I can't eat the pie I'm at least going to pretend like I have some baking. At times, it feels like I'm cheating on my diet. And for some reason it helps to satisfy my sweet tooth craving.
I burn the softer scents in the bathroom. You really don't want a strong scent in there. Another thing you should trust me on.
By now the ladies at Yankee know me, and know me well. I think there was even a picture of me up for a while with a 'Do Not Trim Wicks for This Woman' in the break room after an unfortunate incident I'd rather not mention. But it's all good now. That manager is gone and that means the incident never happened.
I'm counting down the minutes until the store opens. There are two ladies behind me now, with giant empty bags waiting to be filled. I bare my teeth at them in warning. First dibs, I say with my eyes, on all Pink Sands and Banana Cream Pies.
They bare theirs back. But I'm not threatened. If they were really that serious they would have been here earlier. Like me.
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