My brother and I meet at the thrift store halfway home from my work sometimes. We like to judge the couches (he likes long, ugly couches for their underdog factor and their ability to handle tall firefighters looking to take a nap); look at brightly colored clothes, and browse the home goods for various projects we like to do.

A while back I picked up a santa suit – a not-great handmade one, made of an athletic jacket with fake fur stitched around the cuffs and edges. Along with some terrible red 80s pants, and a hat and boots at home, I was all set. The cashier was soooo excited. “Who’s going to be santa??” she sang in an excited voice. “I am,” I said, and she seemed taken aback (I’m not particularly santa-like in appearance). I smiled and paid.

I don’t think she wanted to know it was for a drunken parade full of santas. That is definitely not what she had in mind.