Monday, December 25, 2006
Merry Christmas to All...
My good friend and official falafel taster Bill O’Reilly tells me that there’s a War on Christmas going on, and I believe it. I mean, it seems like everywhere you turn elves are being abducted by Muslim extremists and Nativity scenes are getting carpetbombed. Just last week Kim Jong Il threatened to invade my local production of the Nutcracker, and Homeland Security informed me of a “credible threat” to my reindeer cookies. It seems like nothing is safe any more, not even the warm brown eyes of People’s Sexiest Man Alive George Clooney. All the Oscars in the world can’t buy you love, George. Why won’t you do us all a favor and marry Oprah already?
But all too often it feels like Christmas actually IS war, whether you’re clawing at the eyes of the hot-pink-Garfield-t-shirt-clad soccer mom who dares to challenge you for custody of the last set of An Inconvenient Truth action figures in the Dollar General or dodging a barrage of irrelevant, elliptical anecdotes about people named Chub who lived in the 1940s fired at you by your Great Aunt Ethel over the green bean casserole. Lord knows you’ve got to be strong to survive the 47th airing of A Michael Richards Kwanzaa or the 10,000th agnostic, pansexual recording artist to warble through “Silent Night.” The holidays challenge us, just like locating our country on a world map challenges our nation’s high school students and not passing out in the men’s restroom of a Wendy’s with a Biggie fry in each hand and one boob hanging out challenges Courtney Love.
Of course, I think pretty much everything is a challenge, from avoiding the random gropings of strangers on the train to figuring out why my Tivo won’t stop recording Spanish language news and that religious channel show with the nun who wears an eye patch. This year I took on an added challenge in the form of home ownership; after looking at approximately ten million condos, including one in which something unidentifiable had recently died and one in which the owners had left illegal drugs (not included in the purchase price) on the kitchen counter, I bought a lovely crack-free place just a few blocks from Wrigley Field. Now I have a cute little Polish cleaning lady who calls me Mr. Jay (and who apparently takes off her pants to clean certain parts of the house, as Roommate Liz memorably discovered) and a cute little condo association that spends hours arguing over which brand of light bulbs to purchase and how much is too much to pay for a garden hose. I’m thinking about getting some cute little sharecroppers to complete my set; if things go my way I’ll be celebrating next Christmas with a bumper crop of sorghum.
I realized this year that I have now been sending out shoddily-assembled, wrath-of-God-baiting holiday cards for over fifteen years. That’s nearly four presidential terms or fifteen Pamela Anderson marriages. But compared to other traditions, like dressing up like a slut for Halloween or puking your guts out on St. Patrick’s day, it’s really just in its infancy. So here’s to many happy returns, and many, many happy holidays.
My good friend and official falafel taster Bill O’Reilly tells me that there’s a War on Christmas going on, and I believe it. I mean, it seems like everywhere you turn elves are being abducted by Muslim extremists and Nativity scenes are getting carpetbombed. Just last week Kim Jong Il threatened to invade my local production of the Nutcracker, and Homeland Security informed me of a “credible threat” to my reindeer cookies. It seems like nothing is safe any more, not even the warm brown eyes of People’s Sexiest Man Alive George Clooney. All the Oscars in the world can’t buy you love, George. Why won’t you do us all a favor and marry Oprah already?
But all too often it feels like Christmas actually IS war, whether you’re clawing at the eyes of the hot-pink-Garfield-t-shirt-clad soccer mom who dares to challenge you for custody of the last set of An Inconvenient Truth action figures in the Dollar General or dodging a barrage of irrelevant, elliptical anecdotes about people named Chub who lived in the 1940s fired at you by your Great Aunt Ethel over the green bean casserole. Lord knows you’ve got to be strong to survive the 47th airing of A Michael Richards Kwanzaa or the 10,000th agnostic, pansexual recording artist to warble through “Silent Night.” The holidays challenge us, just like locating our country on a world map challenges our nation’s high school students and not passing out in the men’s restroom of a Wendy’s with a Biggie fry in each hand and one boob hanging out challenges Courtney Love.
Of course, I think pretty much everything is a challenge, from avoiding the random gropings of strangers on the train to figuring out why my Tivo won’t stop recording Spanish language news and that religious channel show with the nun who wears an eye patch. This year I took on an added challenge in the form of home ownership; after looking at approximately ten million condos, including one in which something unidentifiable had recently died and one in which the owners had left illegal drugs (not included in the purchase price) on the kitchen counter, I bought a lovely crack-free place just a few blocks from Wrigley Field. Now I have a cute little Polish cleaning lady who calls me Mr. Jay (and who apparently takes off her pants to clean certain parts of the house, as Roommate Liz memorably discovered) and a cute little condo association that spends hours arguing over which brand of light bulbs to purchase and how much is too much to pay for a garden hose. I’m thinking about getting some cute little sharecroppers to complete my set; if things go my way I’ll be celebrating next Christmas with a bumper crop of sorghum.
I realized this year that I have now been sending out shoddily-assembled, wrath-of-God-baiting holiday cards for over fifteen years. That’s nearly four presidential terms or fifteen Pamela Anderson marriages. But compared to other traditions, like dressing up like a slut for Halloween or puking your guts out on St. Patrick’s day, it’s really just in its infancy. So here’s to many happy returns, and many, many happy holidays.
