Christmas. Better known to me as, “Ho, Ho, Hell”. Gathering with extended family whose gifted teen children apparently lecture at Harvard Medical School while mine eek out a subsistence learning to say “would you like fries with that?” I try not to impale the proud parents of these overachievers on the toothpick tines from the Vienna Sausage hors d’oeuvres plate. The thought passes.
“How nice, you must be proud.” I hate them with a perfect hate.
“Indeed we are. Oh Todd! Come recite Homer in Italian where you pronounce the words backwards. (with aside to me) He’s such a hoot.” Death to these giants of DNA is assured by my cold small hands. Maybe not.
“That’s a lovely sweater. Macy’s?” I quip, hoping to change the subject from their Teen Nobel Prize winner in waiting.
“Heavens no! (she laughs, flopping her limp wrist toward me, weighed heavily by the jangling array of bracelets) we just came back from Sydney, ‘mate’ (she leans toward me to deliver the ‘mate’ making quotes in the air) where we stumbled into the this quaint….” I can no longer hear. My teeth grow numb. OK, I confess! I stole Lindberg’s baby. Stop! Let me sparkle away into a vanishing image like Captain Kirk, transported back mercifully to the bar would be nice.
Freeing myself from the endless prater of familial achievement, I stagger defeated, searching for the comparative safety of some dim corner. Nevermore, quoth the Raven. “Hey there stranger! How’s the family?” Ding, round two. Grasping his hair, I blast my knee into his groin. Well, maybe not this time. “Oh, same old same old, y’know”. Oh death, take me now to thy bosom of sleep. I remind myself to look up the word, banal.
Sitting finally alone, glancing down I discover the mustard on my shirt, evincing my foray of grazing among the ham biscuits. I’m fat. Fat with mustard, the appropriate accoutrement for fat people. Our badge. Our accessory for all attire. Our scarlet letter of French’s ingeneous squeeze bottle. I just wanted a little mustard. That’s all. Just a little. Bottle turned upside down, with the distinctive ‘skweeeert’, we are tattooed as the heretofore slightly clogged squeeze bottle finds its sweet release avec moi. Christ said, ‘It is finished!’, didn’t he? I too am finished with this crowd.
If I smoked, I could flee outside. But as I don’t, with what excuse would I exit? The piano has started now. Damnable Christmas Carols deck these halls, all we in our gay apparel. Gathered ye’round the piano, ye merry folk. I can never remember the words beyond the title anyway. I shall freshen my beverage. And if anyone offers me eggnog I shall surely grasp my chest as death sweeps over me. God I love Christmas with the family. It’s right up there with finding Ivanhoe on my summer reading list.
Perhaps a respite of shopping at the mall. Perhaps water-boarding. Terrorist don’t have to shop at the mall, do they? We should air drop fruit cakes on Baghdad. Then they’d leave us alone as a gesture of pity. Shopping for terrorist girlfriends would be easy. A black burka or perhaps instead, a black burka. Or a nice new rock to pound your laundry on. Ho
Ho Harem.
Night time brings the Christmas lights. A foul and pestilent brood of twinkling. Neighbor’s proud houses festooned with blinking brilliance, visible from the International Space Station. Santa stuck in the chimney, feet up. What a knee slapper that. At least their electric meter is spinning like the tie-dyed fat chic at a Dead concert. Whatever.
My house is dark. The plastic candles in the windows all fell taking palm sized chips of window sill paint with them. Apparently 12 strips of scotch tape didn’t do the trick. Are the Scotch known for their cellophane tape? Aye Lassie, fetch me some haggis whilst you pipe me a Highland tune of cellophane tape. I spent $50 on extension chords last year, white ones, the kind she says ‘you can’t see’. Now, nowhere to be found. They must dissolve while stored in the attic into some ephemeral Christmas ether. Unlike Frosty the snowman, those particular extension chords shall not be back again some day.
I’m going to nail the bastard candles into the sills next year. I’m going to Bermuda next Christmas. I’m going to find out where Norman Rockwell spent Christmas and go there. I’m going to give Easter baskets for Christmas. Maybe firecrackers. I’m going to aim low with expectation and hope not to shoot myself. Until then, merry Christmas to all….
….and all through the night.
