It’s December once again and each year I ponder these two questions: is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Does pineapple belong on pizza? Yes and no.
I scare people by saying out loud what I really think and don’t mind the outcome. If Clarence can get his wings, why can’t I? He was honest enough to say “you weren’t there to save him, George” so when I say “those shoes make your butt look fat” why am I the Grinch?
The joys of the holidays are small ones. Scott will press a discarded Heineken bottle cap into my hand and quietly whisper: “this is for you”. I know how much he loves Heineken so this small gesture leaves me touched. True love is oftentimes measured in small ways.
One epic drawback regarding December is that it is always in winter. I do hog the blankets because I’m small and get cold faster and more easily than he does, especially now that it’s so chilly. I can hum “baby, it’s cold outside” right along with Cher while I snuggle up to him. When we wed, Scott didn’t realize that our marriage vows included, falling under the ‘for worse’ part, “and her cold feet”. Meanwhile, he hums “you’re a mean one Mrs. Grinch” in harmony. I’m an acquired taste, I know, but so is chicken mole and people love it after a few bites.
Christmas is somewhat of a Scrooge - Santa experience at our house. “You bought what and it cost how much?” Scrooge says. “But dear”, I protest, “you didn’t know what to get me for Christmas so I got this on your behalf, ahem, Santa baby.” For my part, I’m always mindful to keep his heart meds in plentiful supply. I just like to fire him up every once in a while to make sure those drugs are working.
Christmas shopping is a cherished tradition; watching children pick out a muffin with the solemnity of a wedding ring, or meeting up with an old friend for lunch and shopping to remark about all the glittery objects that we don’t need, but still want, and who do I feel most sorry for, not the distraught young teenager or her mom who is saying “no way am I buying you gold latex tights for Christmas”. They will sort it out. Instead I feel sorry for the sales people who have been listening to Christmas carols since early November or even late October. No jury would convict a sales person who has been listening to “you better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout“, for going postal. (Are we allowed to say that anymore? Probably not. No disrespect intended toward mail carriers.) I’ve been listening to those same Christmas carols for over 70 years and they arrive sooner each year so, as a juror, I would feel compelled to suggest leniency if left with the fate of a sales person.
Speaking of the post office, it’s also the time for sending out Christmas cards. In the past, it was a great time to read goofy Christmas letters from long lost friends. These days, if any of our cards are returned with “no longer at this address”, I always assume that means they are dead and then I’m grateful that we are still standing. Also, I’ve noticed that we receive many fewer cards than we had in the past. Scott says the cost of postage makes sending cards indiscriminately to people we haven’t seen all year prohibitively expensive. I silently opine that its because people don’t know how to write in cursive, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings so I, uncharacteristically, say nothing. Did you hear that, Clarence?
Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas: the lights, the eggnog, the tinsel, the baking aromas all through the house. The problem is that I’m somewhat terrible at it. I haven’t the stamina to put up a tree or decorate the house anymore so I hire it done. Frustrating? Yup, stressed, more so because I feel like a fake when our home’s decorations are complimented. And gift giving? Food and wine are always appreciated, so I’m told; anything that can be made to disappear is a welcome gift. The idea seems great while it’s rooting around in my head but how was I to know that the neighbors had celiac disease and couldn’t eat my cookies or that the party host is a member of AA.
Christmas is kind and generous. Christmas is draining of energy and money. Christmas is a delusion that lets us believe that the season is shiny and joyous, except when it’s not. Christmas is about each quiet moment of love in a harried life. While we are fortunate to have friends and family gather at our table, there are just as many tables set for one. To assuage my guilt, I donate generously to the Salvation Army’s red bucket when I see one, although it really doesn't help in the long run.
And while I’m probably not responsible for any bells ringing, sorry Clarence, I carry the words of the Grinch with me: It came without ribbons, it came without tags, it came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.
Whatever Christmas is for you, enjoy it but please, don’t ever make me watch Elf again.
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