One year when I was in my early teens, I thought it would be a good idea to go Christmas shopping the day after Thanksgiving. After all, that's when all the stores have the good sales, and the consumer mind-set coupled with holiday spirit would certainly contribute to fantastic holiday gifts. But when I broached the subject with my mom, she was less than enthusiastic.

"OK," she finally conceded, "but if we go, we're going to start early and get all of our gift shopping finished."

What followed was the most arduous thirteen hours of my young life. Being awakened at five in the morning, waiting in line outside the mall, shoving through the crowds to reach my desired destination, picking through the messes left by previous frantic shoppers, and endless traipsing back and forth because of a less-than-optimized shopping list. By the end of the day, it felt more like the Bataan Death March than the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. Never again, I vowed, and my mom smiled, her point made loud and clear.

But it doesn't stop her from being pulled in, again and again. Every year, she and my aunt swear that unless some store is having an exquisite deal, they will not venture out of the house before lunchtime. But every year they find some item in the Thanksgiving newspaper ads that they can't resist, and I awaken on Friday to a house devoid of females. This year, they even snared Sed, who I can't persuade to go out on Black Friday even with promises of diamond-crusted ponies. (Then again, I'm just the husband, and I'm used to my opinion not mattering.)

Ordinarily they make a surgical strike -- hit the store, secure the gift, drive to the register, slash the credit card, and egress. But it's already almost 10, and they're still not back. I began to worry that the whirling vortex of low, low prices had them firmly gripped by the ankles, chortling maniacally at their feeble attempts to kick free.

At least, that is, until my mom called with an ETA and a promise of cinnamon rolls. Now that's a vortex I can get behind.