"No! No! I want an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle!"
I have a confession to make.
I’m a cynical bitch. I’m prone to pettiness at times. I delight in finding various mean ways to tease my cat about his weight problem. But there’s one time of year where all those things fall by the wayside.
That’s right. Me n’ Mariah are dorks about Christmas.
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Don’t ask me way – I have no idea. Actually, correction: I totally do. You think my love of cheesy movies is vast? Ha. If there’s a medal for Cheesiest Holiday, Christmas totally wins. What other time of year is it acceptable to have blow-up snowmen and plastic nativity scenes with crappy glitter on your lawn? Or upside-down plastic ice-cream containers with green and red lights underneath them as festive decorations lining your sidewalk? When else can you convince someone to kiss you just because you both stood under a weed of some sort hanging from the door jamb? Can you name another time of year where you wouldn’t call the cops for perfect strangers arriving at your doorstep to sing crappy song lyrics? And hello – fruitcake? Cheesy! It’s so great.
Every time the end of November rolls around – hell, right after Halloween is done – I get giddy with girlish glee about Christmas trees and fake snow and lights. Even Old Navy Christmas commercials get me going. I’m a byproduct of marketing and Hallmark. Whatever. I regress and I enjoy every fucking minute of it. I revert to being approximately six years-old, except this six year-old has a charge card and isn’t afraid to use it. A lot. ‘Cause that’s the thing about my Christmas obsession. Sure, I love getting gifts. But I love giving them more.
Campbell got but a taste of this last season. We’d only been dating for about two and a half months when Christmas rolled around last year, and I was so swamped in my former Hell Job that I didn’t get the chance to completely geek out. My head just wasn’t in the game. Snippets of it were there – I begged him to drive around until we found a gaggle of houses decorated in Target’s finest – but I wasn’t in the mindset to go full bore.
This year the mittens are off. He’s starting to get a taste of it now. A snippet of a recent conversation at Gelson’s one night:
Him: “I have to get my CD player in the car fixed – I’m getting tired of radio.�
Me: “Yes, you do.�
Him: (Suspicious.) “Why do you say it like that?�
Me: “Because the holidays are coming, and do you know what that means?�
Him: (Raising an eyebrow.) “No?�
Me: “That means we have to listen to a special CD.�
Him: “Oh we do, do we? And what CD is that?�
Him: “Absolutely not.�
Me: “But you have to!�
Him: “I do not.�
Me: “If you don’t I’m going to tell everyone you hate me.�
Random Shopper: “I’m a witness. I’ll tell everyone too.�
Suffice it to say, he’s yet to get his CD player fixed.
The bottom line is this: nobody is safe. Even my room mates are afraid, as one of them asked me via messenger if she was going to suffer a Christmasification of the Surf Shaque after I changed my screen ID to "countdown to Santa." I told her that if I can convince Campbell to decorate his place she’s safe, partially because I don’t have the energy to decorate three homes – he and I are decorating his mom’s place, too – and partially because she’s pseudo-Jewish, therefore I know it’s not a big thing for her. But she’s still getting a Christmas card with “Ho, ho, ho� glitter in it.
But the best thing about Christmas? Two words: Rankin Bass.
Nothing beats the cheesiness of 70s stop motion animation Christmas specials!
Can someone explain to me why one little elf looks like he’s holding a dildo, while the other looks up Rudolph’s ass? Oh, who cares. It’s Christmas time!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I must flit off to do my Christmas cards.
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