Spreading Holiday Jeer
E nough with peace on Earth and goodwill toward men. In the shank of December, ‘tis the season to be cynical. After about a month and a half of hearing the endless peals of ersatz sleigh bells at the mall and watching even more endless Chia Pet commercials, everybody needs a little break when they can vent some steam and act more naughty than nice. Don’t worry, it’s just a nasty little hiccup in this otherwise laudable season. So happy holidays, damn it!
SHE: Already my family has had a holiday spat. We bought a 10-foot tree. I got out the decorations. My husband and I strung it with a billion--make that a zillion--”chasing” twinkle lights.
A daughter and two sons did some decorating on Friday night. Early Saturday, I hung some ornaments on the tree. And before you could say “Humbug!” my daughter noticed I’d moved the Mr. Sun ornament from the top-middle to the lower-right. She’s miffed that I tinkered with her bauble placement and I’m miffed that she’s miffed. The puffed gold heart ornament looks better at the top-middle. Honest.
HE: I’d just like to get the miserable tree to look halfway correct. I can never resist buying a tree that’s taller than I am, so things get pretty ugly in a hurry when I finally get it carted home.
Dragging it up to the third floor, trailing pine needles all the way, is joy enough, but the nightmare of sticking the tree into a holder and getting it to stand up straight makes me long for a visit to the dentist.
It’s not a one-man job, but that’s what I’m stuck with. You screw the trunk into the base, step back and it’s crooked. You crawl back in and try to fix it, step back, and it’s still crooked. For years, I’ve simply given up and had trees with a bigger list than the Titanic. This year, I swear, I’m getting a poinsettia.
SHE: I haven’t bought one Christmas gift. Oh, I’ve made my list and checked it twice, a thousand times, actually, but I’m paralyzed. I can’t face the crazed crowds and the fawning salespeople just yet.
OK, I confess. I have this thing about wanting every gift I buy to be so perfectly suitable that it takes a megadose of courage for me to begin.
The thought that someone would have to return a gift that I sweat blood over makes me queasy. So, I wait till the last minute, rush out, and find that everything on my list has disappeared from the holiday counters.
HE: No problem. Just learn to believe unwaveringly in every word you hear in every holiday season TV commercial and you’ll be fine.
Need the perfect gift for everyone on your holiday list? Get one of those car dust mops. Need the perfect present for that hard-to-buy-for friend or relative? Get the Clapper, technology’s nod to the Olympic-class couch potato. And don’t forget the ever-popular Chia Pet, now available not only in the traditional moo-cow version, but in the high-demand aardvark, tree sloth, wolverine and hyena models. Give ‘em to those you love.
SHE: Gift horror stories. I have loads. Have you ever bought someone a pricey, decorative gift for their home and found it in the bathroom ?
Or, how about this: I gave a friend a bottle of classic perfume one Christmas and she opened it and said: “What am I going to do with this?”
Then there was the year a few neighbors decided to draw numbers and buy each other gifts. The guy who got my number--boy, did he have my number--bought me the most insulting thing he could think of-- extra-large foundation garments. Nice, eh?
HE: For me, the worst holiday abomination is bad Christmas music. I don’t mean just the constant, eternal Muzak you’re subjected to in the stores, but the really awful, miserable, soul-crushingly hideous mortal sins that every bad musician in the world thinks he has to release at Christmas time.
Think of it: somebody like Conway Twitty bleating out “Saaaaahhhhhhlint Naaaaaaahhhhwwwt...” backed by a weavy steel guitar. That’s what hell is like: millennium after millennium of Dolly Parton singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
SHE: More holiday horrors: The guy with the 10-foot breath, who, every year, catches you beneath the mistletoe. (Invent mistletoe radar somebody. Please .)
The phantom who placed a huge, homely snowman on my front lawn three years ago and never fessed up.
The person who gives you a gift to buy his/her way into your life.
The person who gives you a used gift.
The person who leaves your gift on the front porch.
HE: Humbug! Humbug!! HUMBUG!!! Ah, there. I feel better now. See? It was only temporary. Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! Joyous Yuletide! God bless us every one!
What the heck, put on Elvis doing “Blue, Blue Christmas.” No, don’t get up. You can turn it on with the Clapper. Pass the garlic and meet me under the mistletoe. We can set the tree on fire later.
