Picture this. I’m decaffeinated and stumbling into Trader Joe’s, close to the “most wonderful day of the year.” I’m certainly not looking for trouble. The Sullen Teenager (our sixteen-year-old wonder) stumbles alongside, at least as decaffeinated as me.

We are wending our way to the entrance when we are hailed by a skinny bleach-blonde, orange-skinned in artfully torn designer jeans. It’s raining a bit, and her face is squinched up, spotted with moisture. She has a little red TJ’s grocery cart, and she speaks almost-fatal words in a nasal whine.

“You guys are going to take this up for me, right?”

My first response was something unrepeatable and certainly unpublishable. But I dug deep in my shallow well of holiday cheer. “Because you’re blonde and cute?” I pause for a beat. “Sure, we will.” I quicken my pace, intending to take the cart from her.

The change–from skinny helpless thang to roaring tigress–is stunning to witness. “No,” she says in a tone reserved for idiots. “Because I’ve been in a car accident and my shoulder hurts. But people like you…” Dramatic pause. She tacks out for Trader Joe’s entrance, swishing her narrow hips as hard as possible. “Never mind. Merry Christmas to you.”

She delivers the Merry Christmas as if it’s an obscenity she’s helpless not to utter. The Sullen Teen and I both stop for half a step in the rain, with our heads cocked at identical angles of puzzlement. She’s obviously in tiptop condition, the way she’s manhandling that cart.

“That wasn’t a yes or no question,” the Sullen Teen remarks in a calm, musing tone.

“I guess not.” We set off again for the door, and watch as the blonde unloads her cart on a cheerful grandmother who looks vaguely puzzled by the gift but still willing to take it.

As if on cue, the Teen and I begin to giggle. Ten seconds later, as the blonde passes (shooting us an angry look through running eyeliner, her bronzer suffering similarly) the giggles turn into full-blown chuckles. “It’s okay,” I manage through the laughter. “I forgive you.”

She swishes past in fine fettle now, ignoring us. She climbs into her Escalade and damn near peels out of the parking lot as we watch from TJ’s front door.

“Did she say Merry Christmas?” the Teen asks.

“Thank God it isn’t New Year’s,” I promptly reply. We dissolve into laughter again.

Christmas isn’t about snarling at strangers in a parking lot. It’s not about being a jerk 364 days a year and getting off for saying “Merry Christmas” once or twice. I always wondered if Scrooge really did learn his lesson after the Christmas Carol closed. I wonder if it was hard for him to learn new ways of behaving, if he backslid, if he sometimes had bad days and wanted to go back to his ol’ penny-pinchin’, emotionally stunted ways.

We did make it to work, and while caffeinating the entire story is retold to the Selkie, who owns the bookstore. She shakes her head in wonderment. “What a sense of entitlement,” is her comment, delivered between snorts of laughter. “Hey, I’ve got some cedar planks for you. And check out the brownies the Kiwi made.”

I wonder if it would ruin the blonde’s day even more to know that she amused us to no end. I wonder if her Escalade survived the drive home. Granted, I wasn’t my best self in that interaction either…but a please wouldn’t have hurt anything. Or even a bit of eye contact.

I should actually thank the woman, for giving me a good story to tell. You know us writers–everything’s material.

Have a happy holiday, everyone. And remember, when the holiday rudeness strikes…it’s much better to laugh.

Christmas does, after all, come only once a year. I’m glad that I get to see people at their best all year ’round.