I have no taste. There. I said it. I feel as clean as if I’d used something with the words “feminine" and "rain fresh” in it.
A large part of the year I can manage to fake having just enough class so that decent people will be seen speaking to me. I never blow my nose in restaurants, I wear at least one bra when in close proximity of impressionable children and if I have gotten drunk enough to be one half of a one night stand, I always promptly send a thank you note.
See what I mean? No taste. No couth. I shouldn’t be making jokes about having a one night stand. I’m a married woman, for gosh sake. I should be talking about rainbows and tea sets and how much I love the way my wedding band is round.
As I said, a large part of the year I walk around cloaked in pretend classiness so that to the untrained eye, or someone who lives in a single wide whose landscaping plan includes tires with flowers in them, I might actually look like an OK gal.
Something happens to me in the twelfth month that compels me to begin decorating my small space on Earth with things that twinkle, glow, spin, and/or shimmer. If I can find something that does all those things PLUS makes a Christmas noise, I have a little seizure and must be revived by a candy cane.
Tacky? Perhaps. Necessary? Entirely.
This year I have been working way more than any good person should, so Mr. Man has been left in charge of the exterior illumination. Thankfully he and I share a genuine affection for embarrassing displays of holiday joy. He has spent many hours making sure my house can be seen from space. I figure if I’m going to celebrate Jesus’ birthday with twinkle lights, I should make sure He can see it.
I have to admit that even though I get a big thrill out of growing our electric bill, I do feel a little down in the dumper after seeing television commercials during this season. The spots they run this time of year seem to exist simply to point out that I am a loser who needs more money, more friends and more lights.
First of all, it’s always snowing on TV. Not any of that wet, nasty slush that’s been driven over by too many cars so that it’s turned black from the exhaust. It’s that pure white snow on which only Lexus SUV’s and horse drawn sleighs carrying romantic men and their insanely skinny wives are allowed to travel.
On the same street where it’s snowing perfect flakes cut out by angels who drop them from Heaven, there are only two-story houses with large yards and perfectly hung white lights across the front. On the door is a giant Christmas wreath flown in from the Martha Stewart Imported Swedish Wreath Collection and through the windows you can see the fireplace crackling and about twenty happy people drinking wassail.
(You drink that stuff, right? It's not some sort of ointment is it?)
On the snow covered front porch, ALWAYS, are well dressed, well groomed friends with their hands full of gifts just about to knock.
Sometimes they’re bringing Ferrero Rocher in a gold box, sometimes they’re bringing a bottle of wine and sometimes, if the hostess is very, very lucky, they are bringing a plush snowman from Hallmark that sings a fun Christmas song while its carrot nose wiggles.
That funny burning in the back of your throat is jealousy. Just do what I do and chew it back.
Never once in my life have I had a Christmas like that one. First of all, I’d have to move because my house doesn’t have a second floor and even if I could convince guests that the storage space over the garage is really our rumpus room, the dead mice and dusty copies of National Geographic’s might put a damper on gathering around the piano to sing carols.
Also, I don’t have a piano.
My Christmas wish this year is that I could have a commercial Christmas. I want my home made sugar cookies to look like I bought them in a bakery instead of like I was trying to make 8 dozen white blobs of holiday goo.
I want to walk outside to find my entire block has been covered by fresh, white snow that will stay perfect and white for at least the month of December. If I could get a nice man to move in next to me who smokes a pipe and has a son named Timmy who would shovel my sidewalk for a dollar and some hot chocolate, that would be super-dooper.
And more than anything else, I want some commercial friends who wear proper overcoats, have a nice supply of Ferrero Rocher and plush snowmen and want nothing more than to come to holiday gatherings in my attic.
In their Lexus SUV’s.
(Hear that Santa?)
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