A Perfect Christmas Day

First published December 23, 2005

6:15 AM – The bedroom door swings open and Todd Junior launches himself onto the bed screaming, “Mom! Dad! Wake Up! IT’S CHRISTMAS!”

Dad, who was assembling and wrapping toys until twenty minutes ago, can’t open his eyes, so he groans something – fortunately – unintelligible.

“I told him not to come in here,” shrieks Little Suzy from the doorway, nearly hitting that elusive B-above-high-C, and sending Bernie the Schnauzer into convulsions. “I told him he had to wait until the sun came up!”

“It’s Christmas, it’s Christmas, it’s Ca-Ca-Ca-Ca-Christmas,” chants Todd Junior, marching in pajama-footed cadence back and forth across Dad’s chest.

“I’ll make some coffee” says Mom, pulling on her robe.

6:45 AM – The living room has been transformed from a holiday fairyland into a red-and-green battlefield, strewn with torn paper, empty boxes and discarded stick-on bows. Dad now has one eye open and is trying to reattach the head of Little Suzy’s brand new “Burping Bernice” doll, accidentally decapitated during the debut of Todd Junior’s life-size “Johnny Bayonet Charge” play set. Bernie the Schnauzer has chewed up and swallowed his new “Lasts For Years” Teflon bone.

7:15 AM – Little Suzie is busy configuring the tiny computer network in her new “Barbie’s Penthouse Office Suite,” while Todd Junior has just discovered that his new toy fire truck is fairly ineffective in combating the experimental tissue-paper blaze he touched off with Mom’s new aromatherapy candle.

Mom is making more coffee.

12:00 Noon – With both children asleep under the tree in nests of shattered toys, Dad unconscious in his chair, and Mom putting the finishing touches on her famous three-bean casserole, the family starts to arrive. Great Aunt Ellen and Great Uncle Charlie show up bearing a cake, a three-bean casserole, Carl The Dog, and a garbage bag full of gifts.

12:15 PM – Aunt Karen, Uncle Fred, Sheldon, and Brittany help Grandma and Grandpa bring in a pumpkin pie, an apple pie, two three-bean casseroles, and a garbage bag full of gifts.

12:20 PM – Uncle Stan and his girlfriend Stacey arrive with a plate of cookies, a three-bean casserole, and two garbage bags full of gifts.

12:28 PM – Aunt Meg, Uncle Bob, Pammie, and the Twins come to the door with a mincemeat pie, a three-bean casserole, and a garbage bag full of garbage.

12:29 PM – Uncle Bob heads back home to get the garbage bag full of gifts from his driveway next to the dumpster, while the women sip coffee in the kitchen and try to sort out just who was supposed to bring three-bean casserole and who was supposed to bring the ham.

1:05 PM – Dad, Uncle Bob and Uncle Fred set out to try to find a store open on Christmas day that might sell hams. Todd Junior, Sheldon and the Twins are in the backyard planning to “Johnny Bayonet Charge” the girls, not yet realizing that Little Suzie has deadbolted them out of the house. The girls are in the living room playing “Investment Banker Barbie.”

Mom makes more coffee.

3:18 PM – The men come home with eighteen small tins of canned corned beef and a bag of Twizzlers they picked up at a truck stop on the interstate. Grandpa, dressed head-to-foot in flannel, wool, and thermal long johns, has found the thermostat in the living room, and the fish tank is starting to simmer.

3:22 PM – The boys have finally made it back into the house and Aunt Meg is checking them for signs of frostbite. The girls are locked in Little Suzie’s room planning Barbie’s campaign for the state legislature. The dogs are in the dining room eating the ham that they found in the bottom of Grandma and Grandpa’s bag of gifts.

Mom makes more coffee.

4:00 PM – The Family sits down to a Christmas feast of canned corned beef and three-bean casserole. Mom bites right through her coffee mug, so she switches to White Zinfandel.

4:45 PM – More presents! Great Aunt Ellen bought each of the children an identical orange stocking cap, with ribs knitted into them so that they stick straight up. Apparently mistaking the kids for seven wool-topped traffic cones, the dogs slalom joyfully through them, while the adults open their gifts with unbridled enthusiasm; “Wow! A Dandruff Sentry! How did you know?”

11:30 PM – The football games (at least the important ones) are over. The gifts are redistributed into their garbage bags to go home, and the kids are draped lifelessly over parents’ shoulders. Ten gallons of three-bean casserole are congealing in the garbage can.

And all is right with the world.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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Christmas Decorations

Finding the True Meaning of the Holidays in a
Glow-In-The-Dark Plastic Reindeer
First published December 16, 2005

You know, I don’t care where you live (other than maybe downtown Baghdad), I’m willing to bet that there’s some guy in your neighborhood whose roof is literally sagging under the weight of a giant Santa, a small herd of reindeer, and a life-sized nativity scene – complete with “lowing” cattle, two shepherds who look pretty nervous to be up on a roof, a trio of really strung-out Magi, and a fiberglass holy family with the baby Jesus lit up by a 450 watt halogen bulb stuck right up his manger.

This guy is my personal hero – I love Christmas decorations!

Yes, I called them “Christmas” decorations, not “Holiday Decorations,” or any other godless secular nonsense. You see, I have a deep reverence for the collection of mostly Druid, Viking and Pagan traditions that today form the Hallmark® of this holiest of all seasons.

As Saint Paul (probably) said, “Yea, verily shall we cometh together and praise His coming with feasting and rejoicing and midnight madness sales, for the angels of the Lord did proclaim tidings of great comfort and seasonal retail activity. Though the actual birth our Savior was, if I recalleth correctly, sometime in March, or maybe April – no, it was in March I’m pretty sure – remembereth that one time we didst throw him a party and he didst act all embarrassed and even a little vengeful about it? Well, it was still cold out, because, yea, was I still wearing my winter cloak, so it must have been March. Anyway, verily shall we celebrate in December because otherwise our rejoicing wouldst crowdeth Easter merchandising, plus what the hecketh, thou already havest thy winter solstice parties that we couldst piggyback on…”
Paul’s Letter to the Petersons, 6:23.

One big reason I love Christmas decorations is that without them, this time of year is just so incredibly dark. December 21 is officially the shortest day of the year, giving us, if my figures are correct, about eleven minutes of actual daylight. Admittedly a twinkle light doesn’t throw off a whole lot of candle power, but cover the trees, bushes, and the front of a three bedroom split-level with them, and just walking by you could get yourself a twinkle tan.

I’m also crazy about the inflatable decorations that have started showing up in the last few years. Show me a yard jammed fence-to-shed with giant vinyl elves and snowmen, and I’ll show you somebody who’s facing the new year looking at a major cash-back bonus on his Discover card.

Of course, my favorite holiday tradition of all is the Christmas tree. No matter what church’s collection basket you prefer drop your IOUs into, there really is something sacred about dragging a plastic blue spruce into the living room then decorating it with Gordian wads of lights and ornaments that have been packed away in the attic in dog-eared cardboard boxes held together with duct tape and marked “XMAS” in festive green magic marker. Every year for the thirty years we’ve been married my wife and I have talked about trashing all the old junk and doing a trendy designer tree with all new color-coordinated lights and ornaments.

And then I spot the ragged miniature stocking with my name on it that my mother made for me when I was about four.

And the glass ornaments that my father loved when he was alive, so scratched and faded that you can no longer tell what the original color was, but one part is not all that bad, so I always turn the little tin collars that hold the hooks so the not-so-bad-parts show.

And the tattered little elves knitted over pipe cleaners, holding tiny pipe cleaner candy canes that my wife found in some craft shop years before we met.

And the dozens of “Baby’s First Christmas” ornaments that I still insist on using every year (I don’t have any that say, “Baby’s Twenty-Fourth Christmas”).

And the little brass cash register I got for my wife when she opened her store, and the little attaché case she got for me when I started wearing a suit to work, and the little ceramic hockey player skating on a Wheaties box that Santa brought for our son when he made his first travel team.

So every year all the old junk goes up on the tree, along with some newly added junk, and any objective description of the finished product would lean more toward “tacky” than “trendy.” No, our Christmas decorations may not measure up all that well against a 450 watt infant Savior, or even a giant inflatable North Pole.

But they’re ours.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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Dodging the Christmas Bullet – The Five Deadliest Things You Could Buy For Your Wife

First published December 9, 2005

Ok, we’re in it now. There’s snow on the ground, and every public building you walk into has Bing Crosby crooning about it. Holiday cards have started coming in from all those maniacs who are organized enough to get their holiday cards out before St. Patrick’s Day. Everywhere you go there’s someone walking around wearing a “Let’s Just Kill ‘Em All And Let God Sort ‘Em Out” sweat shirt and a Santa hat. Visions of eggnog (with just a wee splash of rum) are dancing in my head.

Yep, it’s Christmas season all right, and it’s time to think about shopping.

Ok, confession time. Just because I’m thinking – and writing – about Christmas shopping sixteen days before Christmas doesn’t mean I’m doing any sort of actual shopping yet. I still have 15.75 days before that becomes an issue, so I’m biding my time.

Now, my wife shops for me and for everyone else on our family gift list, while all I have to do is buy something for her. You would think that this would make the gifting thing a simple and straightforward task.

You would be wrong.

You see, to me Christmas shopping is a sacred ritual, steeped in almost holy tradition. That, and a good healthy sense of terror. I’ve been married long enough to know that buying a gift for your wife can represent one of the most treacherous transactions in a man’s life.

Now, I’ll admit that for the first year or two your little newlywed bride might think your stupidity is just adorable when she unwraps the hot pink left-handed salad shooter you bought from the guy in the mall kiosk, who told you that this was the one gift every woman lives for. But once the honeymoon’s over, Buster, things change.

So for those of you guys for whom the grace period has expired, I’ve compiled this list of the five deadliest things you could buy your wife for Christmas:

1. A Vacuum Cleaner – A gift like this suggests that you think of her as some kind of unpaid servant, which is normally a really bad thing for you to let her know. This warning would also apply to mops, brooms, monogrammed scrub brushes, and plow yokes with shackles on them.

2. A Diet Book Or A Gift Certificate To Weight Watchers – Likewise, you should avoid self-help books with titles like, I’m Ok, But You’re Getting Pretty Hefty or 30 Days To A Slimmer, Less Disgusting You. Do I really have to explain why?

3. Slutty Underwear – This is a particularly bad idea if the slutty underwear is not her size. Buy it too large, and you’ll be in the same mess as you were in with the diet book, etc. Buy it too small, and she might think you got the boxes mixed up and get real curious about who you meant it for. If you’re slick you can actually turn this one around, though, because you can always fall back on the old, “You see honey, the beautiful, shapely young clerk asked me ‘What size?’ and I said, ‘Well, she looks just like you…”

4. Enhancement Surgery – You know exactly what I’m talking about. The people who sell enhancement surgery call it (this is true) “The Gift That Keeps On Giving.” The question she’ll have is, “Yeah, well who exactly will it keep on giving to?”

5. A Tattoo – Particularly if you’re thinking of sedating her and having a scantily clad lady with the words “Live Hard, Die Young” tattooed on her forearm while she’s unconscious.

So there you have it, guys. Now that I’ve clued you in on what not to buy, you can go out and get your wife anything else that strikes your fancy with complete confidence. For my wife, I’m thinking about two tickets to the North American Beer Chugging And Creative Belching Semi-Finals next month in North Dakota.

Don’t tell her!

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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Holiday Horrors: Visa Bills, Fruitcakes, And Those Mind-Numbing Family Newsletters

First published December 2, 2005

You feel the familiar dread coming over you as you pull it out of the envelope - eight sheets of pink paper, covered on both sides with microscopic gray type. These pages chronicle the past twelve months in the lives of your Aunt Edith and Uncle Jake, covering everything they’ve done that was more significant than eating breakfast (and they’ve even gone ahead and documented what they consider some of their more memorable breakfasts).

It’s the Holiday Newsletter.

Reading it, you will discover that Edith and Jake’s oldest boy, Carl, is planning to go to either community college or medical school, as soon as he finishes his GED and his ninety days of community service. You learn all about the egg-candling class Aunt Edith took with her friend Sylvia, and about Uncle Jake bowling a lifetime-high 130 game in the Wednesday Night Elks Club Bowling League. All of your questions are answered regarding George the Gerbil’s tiny little coronary bypass surgery.

So how can you defend yourself against this eye-crossing hemorrhage of family information? One obvious idea would be to simply discard it unread. The problem with this is that there are always little diligence bombs planted on every page, and Aunt Edith is an expert interrogator;

“So, did you get the Newsletter?”

“Sure did, Aunt Edith. It was… um… great.”

“And?”

“And what, Aunt Edith?

“You know. Applesauce. “

“Oh, of course. Applesauce. It’s… um… great?“

“Your cousin Ralph gets run over by a truckload of applesauce and you think it’s ‘great?’”

And just like that, you’re out of the will.

My suggestion is to try aversion therapy – send all the newsletter-writers in your circle of friends and family a taste of their own medicine. Here are a few general Newsletter Themes you might use:

The “Tobacco Road” – see how much misfortune can you pack into a #10 envelope; “…We weren’t too upset when the garage burned down, since the car was already repossessed and all. After that, things got a mite better for a few days, until the following Tuesday, when the septic tank blew up…”

The “General Hospital” – the more intimate medical details you can provide, the better; “… and then I figure, what the heck, since we’re at the doctor’s to have him look at Emma’s piles anyway, let’s just go ahead and get that boil on my own butt lanced…”

The “Pet Parade” – no incident is insignificant when it comes to the little darlings; “…hairballs don’t really bother me that much, but Ed gets real upset when the cat hocks one into his dress shoes, so we decided to have little Muffikins shaved…”

The “Travelogue” – paint them a vivid picture of the places you’ve been; “…You might not think that Toxic Waste, Oklahoma would be that great of a vacation spot, but we find that it’s just about the most romantic thing you can imagine to sit in lawn chairs next to the camper, just after sunset, gazing off to the West at the soft, warm, greenish glow coming off the landfill…”

The “Incomprehensible” – keep them guessing; “…so then I told them that four hundred dollars was way too much for a vasectomy on a weekday in March, and anyway, General Motors products are definitely more reliable than giving away lab rats at the Farmers’ Market…”

Of course if all else fails, you can always just change your name, shave your head and move to Tibet. Just don’t leave a forwarding address, and don’t make friends with any monks who keep mailing lists.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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