12.22.05: Ho Ho Ho (and Some Eggnog With Rum) ‹ Blog

At Christmas play and make good cheer,
For Christmas comes but once a year.
Thomas Tusser

Ho Ho Ho (and Some Eggnog With Rum)

December 22, 2005

If there is a Hell, I suspect it bears a very close resemblance to a SuperTarget a few days before Christmas. While some people may thrive on the color and chaos, I would rather shove freshly-sharpened pencils up my nose than fight my way through throngs of frazzled shoppers to find those last-minute gifts. But of course, one loves one’s relatives, so one goes the extra mile in order to get them what they deserve. And then one gets one’s ass flattened by some fast-moving bitch with a cart, and one’s purse gets sneezed on by some snotty kid, and one’s husband must get into a fistfight with some Martha Stewart-wannabe in order to score the last roll of red-and-green Santa giftwrap, and one could REALLY use a martini right now.

As with any major military mission, last-minute Christmas shopping is best done on a timetable and while accompanied by someone you can trust with your life. Unfortunately, the timetable goes out the window pretty quickly, and even your closest friends can turn on you when the going gets rough. Here’s a representative sample of our outing. (Since my family reads this site, I have to blank out the presents, so that they don’t find out what we got them.)

Romy: Hey, what about a _____ for your parents? Do your parents have a _____?
Tony: Gee, that’s hard to say...
Romy: Yeah, I can see where you wouldn’t know for sure. I mean, it’s not like you lived in their house for nineteen years or anything—OH, WAIT, IT IS LIKE THAT.
Tony: Here, let’s put back the _____ and get a _____ instead—this one doubles as a flotation device.
Romy: Oh yeah, like that’s gonna fit in our trunk. How about a _____?
Tony: Um, do the words “Cuban embargo” mean anything to you? Anyway, my parents already have five. Here—look, it’s a _____ for only $__.__!
Romy: Oh my god, only whores and accountants use those! What the hell is wrong with you?!
Tony: Hey, it’s better than a set of _____. I still can’t believe you bought that. Isn’t it illegal to use those within city limits?
Romy: Oh come on, my mother has excellent aim. Here, would your niece like a _____?
Tony: SHE’S A TODDLER, YOU NEGLIGENT FOOL. She could choke on the little pieces.
Romy: No she couldn’t.
Tony: Yes she could.
Romy: They don’t come off.
Tony: Yes they do. Look. (pops off little pieces, puts in mouth) See?.... oh, crap. *graaak*
Romy: It’s too hard! There’s no time! Let’s buy one of EVERYTHING!
Tony: (drops _____, which scuttles under a shelf) Dammit, woman, get ahold of yourself! Don’t flake out on me now! Here, have some _____—it’ll settle your nerves.
Romy: Aagh! It burns! It burns... Okay; I’m good now. Thanks, honey.
Tony: You’re welcome. Now quickly, after the _____ before it gets away...

There are no Christians in foxholes, they say. The same goes for pre-holiday superstores.

Back home, I spent the next day gibbering and drooling in a corner, completely unhinged by the after-effects of the outing. Meanwhile, my husband took it upon himself to do some last-minute giftwrapping—an admirable urge, until you consider my husband’s taste in wrapping paper. Taste, or lack thereof... It was only when I saw the untidy piles of gifts, wrapped in Strawberry Shortcake wrapping paper, that I fully understood what kind of lunatic I’d married. Now our white walls reflect a gentle, sickening shade of pink, and I can’t even walk through the living room without thousands of little Strawberry eyes following my every move. Terror is a midget in a mushroom hat.

My cat, on the other hand, loves the pile of gifts under our tree. She’s always wanted to be part of the crowd, even if the crowd is made up of inanimate objects; it’s not unusual to find her crouched by the front door among our outdoor shoes and snowboots, her little face furrowed with concentration as she chants in her mind I am a shoe, I am a shoe, be the shoe, be the shoe. Large boxes, apparently, are even more fun to imitate than shoes; the cat now spends her days burrowed among the gifts, waiting to be wrapped. I am a gift box! her wide eyes say, their steady yellow gaze fixed plaintively on me as I scuttle by the Strawberries. I am a stocking-stuffer! Crave me! Adore me! Shake me to hear me rattle inside!

In all this Christmas chaos, it’s easy to forget I’m half-Jewish. When does Hanukkah begin? I have no clue, and I don’t want to know—knowing brings with it an obligation to buy gifts, and I can’t face the stores again, not even for a handful of chocolate gelt. The good news is, Hanukkah only requires little gifts; the bad news is, I’m using the Festival of Lights as an excuse to clean out my junk drawer. Want a tape measure? How about a rubber-band ball? Or maybe a half-used chapstick is more to your liking...

Yes, my friends, this is a time of love and cheer, of family and friends, of five parts rum to one part eggnog. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Kickin’ Kwanzaa, and so forth. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to wrap the cat.