Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Happy Holidays!
The holidays mean different things to different people. For many of my neighbors here in Wrigleyville, for instance, they mean playing Train so loudly it can be heard from space at nine fifteen in the morning while putting the finishing touches on your Slutty Baby Jesus costume for that bar crawl where you got tetanus last year. For moms and dads all over, they mean searching high and low for the perfect present before finally giving up, buying the kids a gently-used Norbit DVD and beef jerky at the corner gas station, and spending the rest of your holiday budget on black market painkillers. And for executives at the Hallmark Channel, they mean devising new plots involving neighborhood decorating contests, crusty old men who may or may not be Santa, and small towns that somehow still haven’t been invaded by Wal-Mart, as you debate the relative merits of Elizabeth Berkley and Hilarie [sic] Burton as the uptight magazine journalist who learns to love again. The truth is, there are almost as many holiday meanings as there are Katy Perry songs about triumphing over something or Us Weekly articles chronicling the uncertain state of Amanda Bynes’ mental health.
But there are also some commonalities, of course. The holidays mean family for everyone, whether it’s the family that gave birth to you and traumatized you by not knowing the difference between Pac Man and Ms. Pac Man when selecting your Halloween costume in first grade or the family that you found through a shared love of Hermann Hesse and Boone’s Farm Wine Product during college. The holidays are a time when we all try to make the world a better place, whether it’s by baking some Christmas cookies for the cranky old lady across the hall who always smells of peach Schnapps and has inappropriate theories about Beyonce or by encouraging Carrie Underwood to focus on any interests she may have other than the musical theater. And no matter who you are, the holidays mean giving thanks for what you have (i.e. sick rack, heart of gold, Salad Shooter) but still kind of hoping that Santa will remember to bring you something special to brighten up your season (i.e. wine rack, Hart of Dixie, Chillow). So in the end, we’re all really kind of the same, except that some of us are richer, better looking, and more likely to have sex with models.
The holidays mean different things to different people. For many of my neighbors here in Wrigleyville, for instance, they mean playing Train so loudly it can be heard from space at nine fifteen in the morning while putting the finishing touches on your Slutty Baby Jesus costume for that bar crawl where you got tetanus last year. For moms and dads all over, they mean searching high and low for the perfect present before finally giving up, buying the kids a gently-used Norbit DVD and beef jerky at the corner gas station, and spending the rest of your holiday budget on black market painkillers. And for executives at the Hallmark Channel, they mean devising new plots involving neighborhood decorating contests, crusty old men who may or may not be Santa, and small towns that somehow still haven’t been invaded by Wal-Mart, as you debate the relative merits of Elizabeth Berkley and Hilarie [sic] Burton as the uptight magazine journalist who learns to love again. The truth is, there are almost as many holiday meanings as there are Katy Perry songs about triumphing over something or Us Weekly articles chronicling the uncertain state of Amanda Bynes’ mental health.
But there are also some commonalities, of course. The holidays mean family for everyone, whether it’s the family that gave birth to you and traumatized you by not knowing the difference between Pac Man and Ms. Pac Man when selecting your Halloween costume in first grade or the family that you found through a shared love of Hermann Hesse and Boone’s Farm Wine Product during college. The holidays are a time when we all try to make the world a better place, whether it’s by baking some Christmas cookies for the cranky old lady across the hall who always smells of peach Schnapps and has inappropriate theories about Beyonce or by encouraging Carrie Underwood to focus on any interests she may have other than the musical theater. And no matter who you are, the holidays mean giving thanks for what you have (i.e. sick rack, heart of gold, Salad Shooter) but still kind of hoping that Santa will remember to bring you something special to brighten up your season (i.e. wine rack, Hart of Dixie, Chillow). So in the end, we’re all really kind of the same, except that some of us are richer, better looking, and more likely to have sex with models.
And
speaking of having sex with models, that’s a really bad subject to end a
paragraph with if you want to have an elegant transition to, well, almost
anything else. Now I feel like I’m going to be talking about making artisanal
butters with my Aunt Carol and you’re just going to be thinking about getting
Elle “The Body” Macpherson or Gisele “The Homewrecker” Bundchen to do weird
things involving shower shoes and the original cast recording of Andrew Lloyd
Webber’s Evita. But regardless,
it’s been a great year. And I know that I have all of you to thank for that, so
thanks! Happy holidays and best wishes for 2014 to you all. And also, Miley
Cyrus! She’s not really relevant here, but based on the way 2013 played out, I
feel like there must be some kind of law requiring that she be mentioned every
ten minutes or so.
