Chick Wit

by Francesca Serritella

My mom’s birthday is a month away, and I’m wracking my brain about what to get her—but really, it’s my favorite thing to obsess over. Here’s a Classic Column, which might be new to you as it never ran in the Inquirer, about birthday shopping for my favorite person.

When it comes to giving a gift to your mother, kids get a pass for a long time.  But when your mother has a milestone birthday like sixty, a macaroni necklace will not do.

It was time for me to get my mother a grown-up gift.

This is not to say that I haven’t gotten her nice things in the past, but this year I wanted it to be really special.  Maybe because I know that my mom is single, I wanted to get her a gift as nice as a husband would get. 

Not one of her husbands—a really good husband.

I got in my head that it had to be jewelry.

I’d never bought a piece of fine jewelry before.  First, I studied.  For months leading up to her birthday, every moment of procrastination was spent searching the websites of jewelers and department stores for every item within my budget. 

Since I couldn’t afford ninety percent of their inventory, this took less time than you might think.

After obsessively zeroing in on a few favorite options, I decided to make a trip to Cartier.  Embarrassingly, I’d dressed up for the occasion.  I wore a shirtdress that I thought said, “I use ‘summer’ as a verb.”

Then I took the subway there, because real rich people are cheap.

I arrived at the flagship store on Fifth Avenue.  The storefront’s heavy, rotating door expelled the dirty, city air from entering its pristine interior with a satisfied sigh. 

Luxury, vacuum-sealed.

As soon as my feet sank into the cream-colored carpet, I felt self-conscious.  Maybe it was just the tiny spotlights dotting the ceiling.  I suppose they’re meant to make the diamonds sparkle, but it felt like high-end interrogation lights. 

Also, there were almost no other customers in the store, so I felt the hopeful eye-beams of every sales associate appraising me and their possible commission from behind the glass countertops.

I couldn’t make the first move.  Thankfully a saleswoman with perfectly-lined red lips stepped forward.

She asked if I’d like anything to drink, because the world of Cartier eliminates minor suffering like thirst.  “Water, coffee, champagne?”

I said water and immediately regretted it.  I should’ve gone for the booze.

Always go for the booze.

But I didn’t feel like I was going to spend enough to earn it.  I was surprised they offered me anything.  Free liquor?  How gracious and generous of them!

 I didn’t connect that, considering my intended purchase, I had just refused the most expensive glass of free champagne in the world.

Then she asked me if I had a budget in mind.  I told her my budget, my voice apologetic. 

You know you’re a people-pleaser when you feel guilty for giving someone your business.

A true professional, she didn’t blink and pleasantly showed me around.

I had three items in contention, which I had reviewed so many times on the website, I could’ve recited the model number.

But I wanted to seem cool and casual, like I impulse-buy jewelry all the time.  So I played dumb and let her explain each piece to me.

“Piece” is how you refer to jewelry if you have a lot of it.

Also, I love spiels.  If I’m going to spend this much on a gift, the least they can give me is a good story to tell.

She talked to me about the materials used, the origin of the design, all available options in store and in others.  The one detail they don’t include is price, unless you ask.

I couldn’t afford to be cool.  I asked.

It’s good I went into the store with a clear and firm budget in my mind, because the consumerist thrill is a real thing.  There’s a magpie-effect when you’re looking at those shiny objects; you get hypnotized.  Plus the saleswoman got me chatting about my mom and our relationship, which got me thinking about love instead money.

Can you put a price on Mom?

My bank account can.

I settled on a necklace. 

“I’ll take it.”

The saleswoman beckoned me to a private booth where I sat across a desk from her.  I was offered water and candies on a silver tray.  I held out my credit card, which she quickly put out of sight somewhere under the desk, so I couldn’t suffer the obscenity of seeing her swipe it.  We chatted, and she printed out the receipt, an eight-by-ten piece of paper for me to sign with a fountain pen.

My undergraduate thesis wasn’t printed on such fine stock.

Again, at no point does anyone say the price aloud.  It’s too crass. 

Then, a new sales associate appeared at my side to present a freshly boxed version of the necklace for my inspection.  The item looked perfect, but the box had a small ding in the corner.  I touched the dent lightly and frowned.

“We’ll find you a new box,” the saleswoman said, shooting her colleague a pointed look.  He swept away.

I smiled politely, now fluent in their non-verbal language of luxury.  She nodded in apology.

They had created a monster.

After I’d approved the new box, we went through the inspection process again after it had been elaborately wrapped in white origami paper and sealed with an actual red wax stamp.  I was impressed.  Finally, my gift was placed in its little red bag.  I reached for it.

“One more thing.” She pulled out a white cardboard bag and put the red bag inside it. The white bag even had a flap over the top to hide it entirely from view.

“Is that a decoy bag so I don’t get robbed on the way home?” I joked.  Well, half-joked. 

She looked at me aghast.  Crime, like tap water and curling receipts, do not exist in the world of Cartier.  “Oh no, the forecast said it may rain today.  This is to protect your bag.”

A bag to protect my bag.  Of course!  I can’t present my gift in some rumpled bag.  They think of everything.

When I left, the streets looked dirtier than I remembered.  Descending to the deepest, depths of the M train, I clutched my bag-in-a-bag to my chest like it contained the Hope diamond.

But inside, I was giddy with excitement.  You would have thought I had bought my mom a house, I was so happy.

Spending money is so fun!

But of course it wasn’t that.  It was the feeling of accomplishment when you have achieved a degree of independence and success that allows you to give back to the person who got you there.  To indulge the person who sacrificed for you.  To repay a debt, or start to.

It was the joy of showing someone that you can take care of them.

I’ve never been so excited about a present in my life.

When I gave it to my mom, she cried. 

And the next day she looked up the price and yelled at me.

Copyright © Francesca Serritella