and on the second day of the holiday season, delerium sets in
Hey, it's a Saturday of a holiday weekend. Were you expecting in depth analysis of the Mid East crisis? Hah. Do you know what a steady diet of candied yams, mashed potatoes and stuffing does to one's thinking process? Throw in about ten glasses of a dark rum/cream soda concoction and several heaping helpings of blueberry cream pie slathered in Red-Whip, and you can see that I'm just waiting for the inevitable coma. And it's not over yet. I still have several unfinished pies sitting in the kitchen. Apple and pumpkin and some kind of berry thing that I thought was blueberry but turns out to have raspberries and strawberries in it. I'm thinking of just shoving everything into a blender - leftover turkey, gravy and potatoes included - giving it a few whirls on the puree mode, and making a Thanksgiving Shake. It's nutritious, delicious and has all your dietary needs. That is, if your dietary needs include a shovleful of fat, lard, starch, carbs and fruit covered in fifteen different kinds of sugar.
So we are experiencing the usual Saturday after Thanksgiving Christmas Explosion here. It's really not until the leftovers are tossed and the stomach ache subsides that people start to realize, holy shit, it's the Christmas season! Everyone runs to their garage to break out the decorative lights and huge, blow-up lawn figures, all with that Christmas theme, like Homer Simpson with a Duff beer in his hand or Tigger with a scarf wrapped around his neck and you think, whatever happened to the three wise men and Frosty? Oh, we know what happened to Frosty. We found him on the lawn last year, polishing the icicle, so to speak. But amid all the Frostys and wise men and baby Jesuses (Jesi?) tethered to every lawn with ropes and pegs and the sweat of aging men who hate Christmas but love to annoy their neighbors with gaudy displays of brilliant lights, there's always those houses with the eight foot statue of Jesus on the cross, all thorns and pained expression, right next to the lighted, spinning figure of Santa on ice skates, chasing a petite, female elf who is wearing the barest of tiny little skirts.
Where was I? Yes, the Christmas season. Sure, you can posture as much as you want with your forever looping cassette tape of pious carols and your hand-drawn cards wishing peace unto all mankind and creatures, but you know that when no one is looking, you are simultaneously on the phone with Master Card begging for a credit limit raise and scouring the internet looking for that very specific lamp that your mother wanted because, damn it, you are going to find it before your sister does so mom can profously thank you on Christmas and not your bitch of a sister who always does everything just right.
Oh yes, I am talking about myself as well, not just pointing the finger at you. I'll climb up into the attic today and dig around for the fake Christmas tree and the box of ornaments that seems to get smaller every year because always, at some point right after Christmas Day, I get pissed off at everyone and start flinging fragile, glittery balls around the house, or I get disgusted with the gross indulgence of the season and start throwing out decorations, promising to "take it down a level" the next year. And I'll break out in hives from putting the synthetic tree together but I won't dare let my husband or kids help because it has to be done right, and I shove them off into the next room with a tray of hot chocolate and homemade gingerbread cookies and a few Christmas movies and by the time I'm done with the tree and I'm itching and cursing and sweating, they've taken the tubes of icing and made genitals on the gingerbread men and boobs on the gingerbread girls and they're watching Silent Night, Deadly Night. I retreat to the living room where I proceed to drink a bottle of tequila, no shot glass required, and by 3am I'm prancing around in a Mrs. Claus outfit trying to get my husband to say Ho! Ho! Ho! and telling him I want to ride him like a reindeer. Oh yes, I put the ho in holidays!
And this is all just by December 1st. There's still 24 days to go after that and I swear, there is not enough alcohol in the world to make me enjoy the fortieth chorus of Santa Claus is Coming to Town emitting from my neighbors stereophonic holiday display of lights, sound, action and I swear I just heard fireworks. So I take the big, black Sharpie I was using to tag all the gifts and I march outside and down the block and wow, is someone going to be surprised tomorrow to find a mustache on the Virgin Mary and genital warts on Santa.
Welcome to the holiday season.