So This Is Christmas
My son, Franz (10), and I were talking about Christmas, and vacation, and who’s coming over (everyone who shares our DNA) and if we’re exchanging gifts (fun t-shirts) and am I really going to wear that Sasquatch Santa sweater again (yes).
He seemed to be struggling with something.
Here is our conversation:
ME: What’s the trouble?
FRANZ: It’s just….I don’t know…I…you know…I just…
ME: It’s okay. Take a big breath and just spit it out. Except not literally. Please don’t literally spit. I have a gag reflex.
FRANZ: I know, Ma. Me too. (he takes a deep breath.) Okay…it’s just and I’m really sorry here, but the holidays…It’s like I want to see everyone and my family and I’m so excited but then they get here and I get, I don’t know, annoyed and I don’t want them here, but I do want them here, and then there’s so many people and the house gets all hot and I get uncomfortable and it’s noisy, but, like I want to spend time with everyone cuz it’s only once a year, but I also want space, like A LOT, and everyone sort of bugs me and it’s so unbelievably boring, like I can’t believe how boring it is and it’s something I really wanted but then when it’s happening…I…just…I’m sorta miserable.
(We let the words float around in the ether a bit.)
ME: Yeah. That pretty much sums up Christmas. That’s pretty much exactly how it is.
FRANZ: Really?
ME: Yep.
FRANZ: Huh. I thought it was just me.
***
I wanted to add: “Why do you think there’s so much drinking during the holidays? It’s not just to celebrate, it’s because we need to be drunk in order to figure out a way to hang out with our families. It’s called coping.” But I didn’t actually SAY that, because this was a ‘teachable moment’ and all.
Christmas. Bring it. Me and my Sasquatch sweater are ready.
Meh, Meh Christmas
In which I explain why I was so "Meh" this Christmas.
I didn’t blog at Christmas. Shocking, right? Usually I get all emotional around Christmas time, you know, sorta like in days-of-yore (my twenties) where I’d drink too much and then start randomly calling people on my phone to tell them how much I loved them. But this Christmas I was just…meh.
I did the Christmas stuff you’re supposed to do: I made cookies, ate too much Chex Mix, and sent Christmas cards. I listened to Christmas music by Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby and the hottest song EVER by Dean Martin “Baby It’s Cold Outside”. (He’s the only singer that seems to understand that this is a song about seduction, about Getting It On, and not about staying inside where it’s toasty.) So, I did everything RIGHT, but I just couldn’t get into the spirit.
I don’t think I needed ghost visitations like in Scrooge to get me excited about cooking a turkey while simultaneously giving me hope for the future. I just needed…snow. And the kiddos. They spent the week leading up to Christmas with their dad, and that made me a little blue. It was also just plain WARM outside, and I just can’t think about sleigh bells when I’m sweating.
A True Story to Illustrate My Sense of Meh:
A few days before Christmas, I stayed overnight at a hotel near the studio I record at because I was exhausted. In the morning, I decided to treat myself to breakfast, so I went to a little diner next to a fast-food Chinese place. It was dark out. I hopped out of the car and was immediately startled by a legless man sitting in a wheelchair in a dark corner of the dark (so, dark squared) smoking a cigarette. Nothing against legless men, but the dude was scary, and he was LURKING. Not that he could run around or anything. Oh, shit. Forget I said that. (Horrible horrible me.)
Anyway. Here is the diner I went to. I know, I know, I should've known it'd be scary:
I ran into the restaurant which was about 2/3 full with old men in work clothes and heavy duty boots. The waitress (in her 60s with a smoker’s voice) sat me in the Singles section. All the Singles were facing the same way, except one dude was turned to look at all the Singles, and she put me right in front of him. We were a chair away from each other and he was staring at me while shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. In between bitefulls, he made big hacking coughs, as if attempting to expel a demon from his chest.
The waitress poured me coffee. It was so thick, I thought it was syrup. I tried to drink it, but it burned…the way vodka burns, except without any hope of getting a buzz. Getting The Plague, maybe, but not a buzz.
I took out my iPad and everyone sorta stared at me, and I could hear their thoughts: “Look at that lady bringing in her fancy tech gear and thumbing her nose at our coffee”.
I looked around the restaurant for a friendly face, and immediately noticed a table with four women, one of whom was dressed LIKE AN ELF. A 6’3 ELF. She had on this red velour shirt with a pointy green collar and bells. And she was wearing old jeans. And the whole experience made me feel as if 1) I’ve become a snob and 2) It’s hard to feel merry about Christmas when a legless guy scares you in the parking lot, a guy hocks up breakfast, and a tall lady-elf glares at you.
So I didn’t write during Christmas because I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer.
Wait. That phrase “Debbie Downer” is someone who makes others depressed, right, and not a porn name? Right?
Aw, jeez.
We ended up having a good Christmas. Kealoha spoiled me. And I feel better now that the kids were here for Christmas Eve and day. But I sorta am ready for the comfort of routine, and the time when you don’t feel so much pressure for everything to be sparkly and perfect and life-affirming. You know? I’m not hungry for turducken or caroling or miracles; I’m just hungry for normalcy. And maybe a wet burrito. But normalcy first.
Nothing Says Merry Christmas Like Bigfoot And Elvis (Misadventures in decorating the tree)
In which we decorate the tree and have absurd conversations.
When I envisioned having kids, I think I thought it would be something like the song Somewhere That’s Green and I’d be all Betty Crocker/Marilyn Monroe, and hubby would smoke a pipe, and our kids would be perfectly coiffed and say things like “Yes, Mummy. I love you with all my heart.” (In my fantasy, we were all English.)
The reality of my family life is more like Animal House. We’re all like drunk college students wearing togas and screaming about farts. Except the kids aren’t drunk. (Fingers crossed.)
Here are excerpts from putting up the tree with the kiddos last night. Simone is 6, and Louis is 8.
SCENE ONE
Simone is unwrapping Christmas ornaments.
SIMONE
Elvis. Elvis. Another Elvis. A Moai. Kealoha, a Moai! Oh! And here’s Bigfoot. Mom? MOM! I found BIGFOOT! I put Bigfoot on the tree because I know he’s your favorite.
ME
Well, nothing says Merry Christmas like a Sasquatch.
SIMONE Bigfoot says “Merry Christmas and GRrrrrrrr!”
SCENE TWO
Louis holding onto a glass pickle that you are supposed to hide in the tree and whoever finds it has good luck. I am in the kitchen when I hear:
LOUIS
I get to hide the pickle! I’m hiding the pickle! I’m going to hide that pickle so hard!!
My face flushes red as I think about hiding the pickle. I look at Kealoha. He doesn’t even say it, but I know he’s thinking “I want to hide the pickle hard too.”
SCENE THREE
Kids are setting up two manger scenes. One from my childhood and one that’s a Charlie Brown nativity. We’re not religious, but I always liked setting up the manger.
LOUIS
Uhm…Mom…Jesus Doesn’t have an arm.
ME
Yeah. I know. He doesn’t need an arm. He’s like holy and stuff.
Five minutes later. I’m in the kitchen and Louis calls to me.
LOUIS
Mom? Can we make a baby?
Long. Pause.
Me: Uh…What?
LOUIS
You know for the Charlie Brown manger set cuz there’s no baby Jesus.
ME
Oh! Make Jesus…you mean…like…out of…Legos?
LOUIS
How would I make Jesus out of Legos?
ME
You know. Use one of your Lego guys. They’re small enough to be a baby.
LOUIS:
Okay.
Sound of frantic rummaging through Lego box looking for random Lego heads and bodies. Five minutes later.
LOUIS
Does this work?
ME
Sure. If you want baby Jesus to have a mustache.
Louis goes back to Lego box and more frantic rummaging. Five minutes later.
LOUIS
Here. This is better. Only write a sign that says This Is Baby Jesus at 3 Years Old. And I put some weapons in the manager for the Wisemen dudes in case they get attacked.
ME
Smart thinking. Better make sure they have a bazooka or something, cuz you never know if there’s going to be like a coup or something. In Bethlehem. On Jesus’s birthday. With the little Drummer Boy.
LOUIS Stop it.
SCENE FOUR
LOUIS
Simone, you better be nice or Santa’s going to give you coal.
SIMONE
That’s okay. I like coal. Kealoha! Mom! Add coal to my list. You can draw with it and stuff. Coal is great.
Kealoha adds coal to her list, along with the turkey baster request, microscope, pink DSI, bouncy ball, horse, and an owl stuffed animal, though we’re not sure which animal to stuff the owl into.
It’s going to be an interesting holiday.
Santa: Reinvented
I say he needs an image makeover. First, a serious diet. And someone should check him for diabetes. That much weight around the middle is a sign that something’s not right. Let’s put him on a treadmill, get him on a healthy diet with plenty of fiber, and then, I’m sorry, but that beard has got to go.
I was at Dog Story Theater last night watching a fabulous night of improv with very talented people. I’ll link it so you can see who I’m talking about. Then they did their Open Improv Jam. Basically they let anyone try their hand at improvising. I was grumpy and wearing black and generally feeling very moody, so, of course, decided to jump on in. It made me feel better. First off, everyone was funny, and secondly, I sort of like the challenge. Also, secretly, I like being on stage. In a spotlight. It’s warm up there. Anyway….Our prompt: holidays. My epiphany: Santa desperately needs to be updated.
It occurred to me the current image of Santa Claus was invented by Coca Cola. At the time, a jolly old man with a long beard was warm and appealing. Now, he’s a little bit creepy. He’s vastly overweight, with a long, unkempt beard, and he wants kids to sit on his lap. It makes me uncomfortable.
I say he needs an image makeover. First, a serious diet. And someone should check him for diabetes. That much weight around the middle is a sign that something’s not right. Let’s put him on a treadmill, get him on a healthy diet with plenty of fiber, and then, I’m sorry, but that beard has got to go.
I want a lean Santa. A clean-shaven Santa. A Santa that says “I’m approachable and healthy. I’m well-adjusted. I take pride in my appearance”. In fact, I want Santa all to myself, in a dark room, lights twinkling, some mood music in the background. In fact, as long as I’m reinventing Santa, I want my Santa in his late thirties, open to commitment, with a good stable job. And I want him in a thong*.
