Where’d Christmas go?
What we’ll be asking on the 26th, scrambling to get rid of the Christmas tree before it spontaneously combusts – and deciding which neighbor’s yard to hide it in.
Or in our case, which part of the beach to drag it to – nature returning to nature, as my Father said when scattering Uncle Larry’s ashes on his favorite bar stool.
Christmas Eve feeling like the last day of a great vacation.
Every vacation with a ‘vacation rhythm’: First days moving deceptively slowly, as we reorient to time off – once noticing there’s only a couple of days left, time accelerating.
The final day a blur of squeezing in as much fun as possible, while packing and trying to glue that broken lamp back together.
On the trip home, debating which was better: Anticipation or reality.
Back in the office the following Monday, vacation ‘worn off’ by mid-afternoon.
Of course, that describes Old Man Vacations! (Shakes Fist Angrily!) when workers actually went to offices, spent time working – not threatening to quit, and not whitewashing their slovenly work habits with uppity terms like “PTO: Paid Time Off”.
All that aside, the Christmas season much the same: Eagerly anticipated for its traditions, parties, and general merriment – apparently there are religious overtones as well – and then gone!
For me, anticipation the best part of the season, as we renew family traditions:
Christmas cards a daily mailbox treasure hunt – who knows what we’ll find – or who those people are.
Of course, close friend’s cards are the best, seeing how their kids have grown.
For ‘less close’ friends, we look for new children/grandchildren – if there was a visible pregnancy in last year’s picture – – and whether the baby’s dressed in blue or pink. Unfortunately, one family’s newborn was dressed in yellow, which may hint at future gender confusion.
But the pictures are all smiles and happiness – imagine if they provided an accurate look back at what really went on: Daddy’s mug shot!
Unfortunately, Christmas Cards are on their last legs: Next year a text advising “No card this year: Follow us on Instagram”!
My friends said “No gifts”, but I couldn’t resist: I bought their personal information back from Tik Tok.
Christmas music a cherished tradition, but why? If it were any good wouldn’t we listen to it year-round?
I’m tired of pondering what the hell figgy pudding is, but relieved to hear Wassail is Swedish for IPA.
Cutting down the ‘perfect tree’ and unboxing the family ornamental heirlooms once a decorating staple, but we now get our tree at Lowe’s, and since the ‘Timberrr! Incident’ when the tree ‘fell’ and all the ornaments shattered, trimming goes quickly. But a still a great excuse to Wassail it up!
Though I must admit, I love starting each day turning the tree lights on – fire extinguisher close at hand.
But the classic films being remade for today’s ‘sensibilities’: Jimmy Stewart starring in “Apologies for my privileged wonderful life”, Bing Crosby in “PTO Inn”, and “Home Alone: CPS Investigates”.
But Tuesday, it’ll be as if none of this happened, Christmas becoming a close friend who’s outlived their usefulness – and fortunately, taking egg nogg with it.
And all those creepy inflatables. Terrifying to imagine what they’ll look like after Halloween and Christmas figures inbreed. British royalty foreheads…
The season’s full of great memories, and its departure made even sadder by what’s next:
January. The. Coldest. Darkest. Boringest. Month. of. the. year.
Even the Super Bowl moved to February.
What better month to give up Wassail and dry out?
For 206 more posts like this –each with a wish for a few more days of the holidays– go to beersatthenifty.com. Your phone will display every post, and you can waste an hour or two.
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TO ENHANCE YOUR ENJOYMENT OF THIS POST, PAIR IT WITH THE FOLLOWING SONGS:
Now that the season is nearly over, I’ve relaxed my effort to have “All I want for Christmas is you” designated a hate crime.
As for a Christmas song, how about “Fairytale of New York”, by the Pogues, featuring Kirsty MacColl on vocals. She had a strong solo career, but died tragically in a diving accident in Mexico when she saved her son from the path of a speedboat during a scuba dive. How’s that for another reminder to “take nothing for granted”.
Typical Pogues…but find your own damn lyrics.
But if you want to contemplate how lucky we are – and be reminded how narrow life’s margin between have and have not:
Walking Down Madison Kirsty MacColl (co-written with Johnny Marr)
Walking down Madison
I was philosophising some
Checking out the bums
See you give ’em your nickels
Your pennies and dimes
But you can’t give ’em hope
In these mercenary times, oh no
And you feel real guilty about the coat on your back
And the sandwich you had, oh no
From an uptown apartment
To a knife on the A train
It’s not that far
From the sharks in the penthouse
To the rats in the basement
It’s not that far
To the bag lady frozen asleep in the park
Oh no, it’s not that far
Would you like to see some more?
I can show you if you’d like to
When you get to the corner
Don’t look at those freaks
Keep your head down low
And stay quick on your feet, oh yeah
The beaming boy from Harlem
With the airforce coat
The ones who died, the ones who tried
The ones that sit and gloat
Within every city and town there’s a Madison
Frozen lives for whom nothing’s happening
Hungry children is a mother’s dilemma
Dumpster diving to feed her baby Emma
So you walk on by like it doesn’t affect you
The held out hand that you pay no respect to
Nickels and dimes won’t even buy your guilt
Another wino dead, burnt to death in his quilt
It’s a cardboard city, newspaper metropolis
The system can’t cope or keep on top of this
The authorities come as you’re not for display
Do they solve the problem, no, they move him away
They’re in a vicious circle of no fixed abode
The social won’t pay ’em the money they’re owed
When you’ve got no money you can’t pay rent
Hypothermia kills ’cause the system is bent
Hey, come here. Let me show you. You wanna see some more?
I can show you if you’d like to
In the subway sits a vacuous man
His grip on life is a bent tin can
It’s a holy shrine where he burns his light
It makes things easy and removes his plight
For an hour or two but he can’t escape
They’re all penned in with government tape
There are good samaritans who bring them soup
The sally army with their bibles and boots
You can see yourself ’cause it’s not too far
One short trip you don’t know who they are
‘Til the night comes then it all comes back
Like the smell of patchoulli and the armies of rats
It’s a shame to be human it’s a human shame
It seems we’ve forgotten we’re one and the same
One and the same
No it’s not too far
We’re one and the same