A Bastard Christmas
Christmas is a special time of year. Children are excited beyond the norm, parents are exhausted and traffic is in an ugly snarl - and that's just in the malls.
Outside of the malls can be found cars parked in too-small parking spaces. People are running around flush with anger and frustration because everyone acts like a complete asshole during the Christmas season.
I really hate people.
Tonight, I will spend the night with my daughter and girlfriend, decorating the tree while sipping highly sedated eggnog as we listen to Christmas carols as my daughter sings along.
The tune she sings will be in another town from the actual tune and she will be miles away from finding the correct lyrics. She will belt out "he knows if you've been bad or good so be good for goodness snakes", Without so much as a clue as to how far off she is from seeing the proper lyrics. And I will not try to correct her. It would do no good to do so. After all, she has no idea what the word "sakes" means, but she does know what snakes are.
The off tune ramblings of my little girl will not bother me one bit, due to the soothingly hypnotic effects of the afore mentioned eggnog.
Thank you for eggnog, whoever invented it. But even more, thank you for the invention of brandy, whoever invented it.
I really love brandy.
Soon after the tree is completely decorated I will settle down into my couch, basking in eggnog afterglow as I throw a little more brandy into the fire of my belly. All will be well at that moment, except for the chattering of the girl who is responsible for necessitating the induction of the brandy into my celebratory habits. I call her my girlfriend for some reason.
Later, I will sleep in a brandy-induced bliss. My world will be calm and relaxed tonight - after the eggnog, anyhow.
Tomorrow I will awake to the ringing of my doorbell. No one has respect for privacy during the holidays. Especially evangelistic Christians who feel the need to spread their special version of joy at 8 AM on Christmas Eve day.
These people will be met with the courtesy that they showed to me in waking me from my slumber to thump their Bible at me. These people will find that I am the proud owner of torn underwear and a very loud air horn.
No doubt, they will attempt to get past all of that. Yes, they will tell me about their wonderful church or the mass that they will be holding. And when I tell them that I have no love for their god and that I despise them they will probably ramble on anyway, oblivious to how rude they are being.
True to myself I will then have to allow them to have a glimpse of the large caliber, semi-automatic weapon that I bring to the door when I am awakened at odd hours. This is generally when they leave. It's been real.
I really hate Bible thumpers.
Later on I will be forced to watch all of those terrible Claymation type Christmas specials and see how Rudolph saved Santa Claus from Godzilla and Rodan. What Monster Island has to do with Santa Claus I will never know, but my daughter seems to enjoy those inane and banal shows. SO, I am stuck watching them.
Finally, when those awful shows have ended the woman of the house will turn on some Christmas show where lots of celebrities read bad jokes off of cue cards and sing Christmas carols off key while dancing routines that exposed them as the clods they are. That's entertainment, eh?
To be fair, the little woman does not want to watch these shows either, but there is nothing else on. Every stinking station has one of these jackass shows on the air except for one. That station is doing a "Friends" marathon - I have seen each episode about 20 times already! Enough with "Friends"!
I really hate Christmas programming!
Eventually, one of us will get the great idea to throw our "Christmas Story" DVD into its matching machine and for the next hour and a half we will be enjoying the Christmas season for the very first time. No doubt, when Santa pushes Billy down the slide, telling him "you'll shoot your eye out" we will burst into laughter for the first time since the onset of another miserable winter.
Later, my Dad will call. He will be running late. He is always running late. But, he will be here to play Santa for my daughter - the late Santa.
Three hours after he is due to arrive, after he calls, we will all run up stairs and into my little girls room and pretend to be asleep, "so we don't scare off Santa". And then, my Dad (the late Santa) will come into our house to lay presents under the tree. And then, with a mighty "Ho, ho, hooooooo! Merry Christmas!" and a jingle of bells, he will leave the house.
Immediately we will run down stairs to find the, formerly sparse, living room awash in gifts. My daughter will never make the connection as there is a knock on my door…it's Grandpa and he just got here!
Kids have no clue.
After all of the presents are open and the little one is fast asleep it will be time to put things back in order. Someone will remark on the obvious fact of how we were all so meticulous when we wrapped the gifts and how frenzied my daughter was when she opened them.
After the comment is made I will bite my lip to try to keep from shouting at them that they made the same observant comment last year and the year before. I will attempt to keep from pointing out that that was the same comment they made after her birthday, too.
Eventually, after they ramble on and on about how frenetic my kid was while opening her gifts, I will thank them for their command of the obvious. Too, I will thank them for their repetition of their comments and allow them credit for the blood coming out of my ears because of their repetitious and annoying diatribe.
I will kindly thank them for shutting the hell up, too. I am always polite.
Finally, after the moment where I commend their redundancies is over, we will get to the infamous and highly unpopular job of cleaning.
The Christmas mess now takes up seven large trash bags. This is particularly odd considering that all of the presents only took up two of the same sized bags.
Somehow, in all of the excitement, the wrapping paper has managed to defy the laws of physics and every other natural law known to man. How in hell did that happen?
At any rate, the mess is eventually cleaned. Soon, I will settle into a nice long slumber that will be disturbed, only occasionally, by the snoring of the person beside me. How any woman can snore as loud as she manages is beyond me.
Of course, I will nudge her to get her to stop snoring. She will wake up angry that I woke her only to roll over, go back to sleep and snore - right in my ear. Does she do it on purpose?
Eventually, after I jab her in the ribs a few times, she will find a position where she no longer snores like a bear. Until then it will be a battle between my thumb and her ribs.
I must say that it's become a bit of a challenge to get her to stop snoring long enough for me to get to sleep…sort of like a mountain to a climber being pelted with rocks - It's not the most fun thing to do, but it sure is satisfying to conquer the beast!
Finally, however, I will slip off into the land of dreams. Christmas will be over and I will be able to relax…for a little while, at least.
Mom's flight arrives at
1:30 PM tomorrow.
