How Was Your Christmas?
There is one question that is posed more than any during one time of the year: How was your Christmas?. As I am Canadian, a breed of generally thoughtful (and fearful of ever looking racist) people, the second question which follows more as a subsection amendment invariably is: Uh, do you celebrate Christmas?
Valid question.
Fatty, the love of my life and the future father of my children, was accompanying me for a fine curry meal at Stratenger's, that wonderful establishment that allows people to double fist pints while performing dialogue solely with smoke rings.
How was your Christmas?, he'd asked the bar owner.
Strat's Owner: Oh, it was very good, thank you.
Judging by skin tone and menu offerings at his fine establishment, the odds were 50 to 1 that the gentle man queried did not celebrate Christmas. But because he's Canadian, he didn't say anything.
I work with a fellow named Andrew. Though smart as a whip, with one look in his skittish eyes and at his shaky hands, one can tell he had a sordid past. This past landed him back into his familial home. Circumstances. A home he shares with 3 generations of immediate and extended family.
Andrew: This was the best Christmas ever.
The Comrade: Why?
Andrew: I got to spend it with kids.
I keep hearing how Christmas is for kids.
When Fatty was a kid, Santa would leave crammed to containment breach 4' high stockings at the feet of his and his brother Tristan's beds. There was a time when these stockings were taller than both boys. The boys would drag these appendages to their parent's bed, unravelling the spoils Santa bestowed upon them.
The last Christmas I hung a woolen sock from my family's fireplace mantle was when I was in high school. Technically a kid (within this society anyway). I had begun to sprout boobies and to defy my father's word. Mammary growth and the development of a combative nature were the reasons I received a solitary gift, reputedly from St. Nick.
One rock.
It wasn't meant to be a paperweight.
Tiny Little Angel: It's not that you've been bad and Santa's punishing you; it's just that your dad's an asshole.
Unfortunately my own internal dialogue drowned poor Tinkerbell out.
To save any future yuletide shame I stopped hanging wooly foot sheathes from wooden mantles. Toasty feet were a greater short-term reward. Besides, I couldn't imagine a fat man, jolly or otherwise, sullying his suit by coming down a sooty, cobwebby chimney which had been boarded up to prevent burrowing creatures from entering through the flue. Much like a Trick or Treater bypasses a house with no lights on, any rooftop welcome mat was simply removed before the big day. I suppose it was pragmatic as reindeer could have ruined a new roof.
I'd mentioned to my mother several weeks ago that this year I was intending to spend Christmas with people who didn't make me feel bad. This year Christmas Day was spent at Fatty's familial home. His parents had given fair warning that this was going to be a "low key Christmas" with only one rule: No extravagance. Fine by me.
Years prior I'd decided that the last minute shoppers of the world were silly fools who got themselves up to the nose hairs in negative bank balances by the 26th. Maybe 3 months of overtime might cleave a chunk out of their cyclical debt. I stopped buying extravagant gifts and started making presents for my chosen people.
This was in the form of created Christmas CDs featuring the Flaming Lips, Tom Waits, Axl Rose, The Ramones and George Michael (because he makes me happy). Artwork was designed. A half dozen bars or cookies were baked and parsed out into cellophane bags with gold stars. Christmas became non-consumerist, grown-up, and with an eye to relative ecological responsibility.
2 out of 3 ain't bad.
The grown-up part needed to be reevaluated.
Fatty: So for sure you haven't spent a lot of money on me?
The Comrade: Under $100, baby. I promise.
80% of which was from the online trickster's boutique Penguin Magic. Fatty does amazing card tricks. He's now trying to master mentalism.
Last summer while we two were sitting in massaging pedicure chairs upholstered in genuine Naugahyde, Fatty leaned over to me, speaking above the whirlpool jets attacking our bunions and callouses.
Fatty: You see here? I've found the reason why men don't listen to women.
The Comrade: Oh?
Fatty: It says here that we only use half of our brain's hemisphere when you're talking to us. Women use both hemispheres.
The Comrade: Really?
Fatty: Cosmo wouldn't lie.
I have a dream of being in a ukulele band.
I've lately wanted to have a giant blackboard.
I think Spirograph is beautiful.
Fatty and I were picked up by our Christmas Chauffeur. Fatty's dad. He's the one who did something huge and dangerous within his medical career not unlike Russell Crowe had in the Insider.
I asked Fatty to imagine something.
Imagine a father who would never consider picking his child up.
Who would never hug you,
Let alone greet you at the door.
Never ask how you're doing.
Never call you on your birthday.
Never thank you for the dinner you spent 4 hours cooking,
Though he might complain about the turkey being dry.
Fatty can't imagine. His father is the antithesis of the example I'd been shown.
Pulled up at the door.
Flickering candles greeted us on the porch
Along with a gorgeous mother who'd dipped into the ruby port early.
And a brother who had the remains of Ikea-made bed head.
All of a sudden it is loud.
Not piercing and accusatory,
But boisterous and joyful
All we faithful and triumphant.
We brought mistletoe.
I kissed the lot
And announced I was thirsty.
Spiked cider!
Ma favorit.
And then the stockings came out.
No lie, they were 4' high.
The boys had their matching pair.
And I was given one too;
An old woolen English Army sock once worn by Fatty's grandfather,
My beloved pub crawling companion whom I met at the tail end of last summer.
One item was a "romance package" containing massaging tools and synthetic rose petals.
Upon opening this gift,
The Comrade: Someone really wants a grandchild.
They didn't have to do it.
The lot of them.
Fatty didn't have to get me chalkboard paint or a Spirograph set or His and Her ukuleles. Besides, if Cosmo was right, he wouldn't have heard me anyway. His family didn't have to supply the most gorgeous dinner or require us to fully fill the large trunk of a cab with entirely fun, useless crap. They didn't have to do it. They didn't have to try to erase the pain from previous Christmases passed. They just did because they love me.
This was the best Christmas since I was 8 years old.
(The one with the EasyBake Oven)
And I have calluses on all of my left hand fingertips to prove it.
I am one step closer to actualising my ukulele dreams.
Whether 29, 37, 58 or 61 years old, Andrew was right: Christmas really is for kids.
Valid question.
Fatty, the love of my life and the future father of my children, was accompanying me for a fine curry meal at Stratenger's, that wonderful establishment that allows people to double fist pints while performing dialogue solely with smoke rings.
How was your Christmas?, he'd asked the bar owner.
Strat's Owner: Oh, it was very good, thank you.
Judging by skin tone and menu offerings at his fine establishment, the odds were 50 to 1 that the gentle man queried did not celebrate Christmas. But because he's Canadian, he didn't say anything.
I work with a fellow named Andrew. Though smart as a whip, with one look in his skittish eyes and at his shaky hands, one can tell he had a sordid past. This past landed him back into his familial home. Circumstances. A home he shares with 3 generations of immediate and extended family.
Andrew: This was the best Christmas ever.
The Comrade: Why?
Andrew: I got to spend it with kids.
I keep hearing how Christmas is for kids.
When Fatty was a kid, Santa would leave crammed to containment breach 4' high stockings at the feet of his and his brother Tristan's beds. There was a time when these stockings were taller than both boys. The boys would drag these appendages to their parent's bed, unravelling the spoils Santa bestowed upon them.
The last Christmas I hung a woolen sock from my family's fireplace mantle was when I was in high school. Technically a kid (within this society anyway). I had begun to sprout boobies and to defy my father's word. Mammary growth and the development of a combative nature were the reasons I received a solitary gift, reputedly from St. Nick.
One rock.
It wasn't meant to be a paperweight.
Tiny Little Angel: It's not that you've been bad and Santa's punishing you; it's just that your dad's an asshole.
Unfortunately my own internal dialogue drowned poor Tinkerbell out.
To save any future yuletide shame I stopped hanging wooly foot sheathes from wooden mantles. Toasty feet were a greater short-term reward. Besides, I couldn't imagine a fat man, jolly or otherwise, sullying his suit by coming down a sooty, cobwebby chimney which had been boarded up to prevent burrowing creatures from entering through the flue. Much like a Trick or Treater bypasses a house with no lights on, any rooftop welcome mat was simply removed before the big day. I suppose it was pragmatic as reindeer could have ruined a new roof.
I'd mentioned to my mother several weeks ago that this year I was intending to spend Christmas with people who didn't make me feel bad. This year Christmas Day was spent at Fatty's familial home. His parents had given fair warning that this was going to be a "low key Christmas" with only one rule: No extravagance. Fine by me.
Years prior I'd decided that the last minute shoppers of the world were silly fools who got themselves up to the nose hairs in negative bank balances by the 26th. Maybe 3 months of overtime might cleave a chunk out of their cyclical debt. I stopped buying extravagant gifts and started making presents for my chosen people.
This was in the form of created Christmas CDs featuring the Flaming Lips, Tom Waits, Axl Rose, The Ramones and George Michael (because he makes me happy). Artwork was designed. A half dozen bars or cookies were baked and parsed out into cellophane bags with gold stars. Christmas became non-consumerist, grown-up, and with an eye to relative ecological responsibility.
2 out of 3 ain't bad.
The grown-up part needed to be reevaluated.
Fatty: So for sure you haven't spent a lot of money on me?
The Comrade: Under $100, baby. I promise.
80% of which was from the online trickster's boutique Penguin Magic. Fatty does amazing card tricks. He's now trying to master mentalism.
Last summer while we two were sitting in massaging pedicure chairs upholstered in genuine Naugahyde, Fatty leaned over to me, speaking above the whirlpool jets attacking our bunions and callouses.
Fatty: You see here? I've found the reason why men don't listen to women.
The Comrade: Oh?
Fatty: It says here that we only use half of our brain's hemisphere when you're talking to us. Women use both hemispheres.
The Comrade: Really?
Fatty: Cosmo wouldn't lie.
I have a dream of being in a ukulele band.
I've lately wanted to have a giant blackboard.
I think Spirograph is beautiful.
Fatty and I were picked up by our Christmas Chauffeur. Fatty's dad. He's the one who did something huge and dangerous within his medical career not unlike Russell Crowe had in the Insider.
I asked Fatty to imagine something.
Imagine a father who would never consider picking his child up.
Who would never hug you,
Let alone greet you at the door.
Never ask how you're doing.
Never call you on your birthday.
Never thank you for the dinner you spent 4 hours cooking,
Though he might complain about the turkey being dry.
Fatty can't imagine. His father is the antithesis of the example I'd been shown.
Pulled up at the door.
Flickering candles greeted us on the porch
Along with a gorgeous mother who'd dipped into the ruby port early.
And a brother who had the remains of Ikea-made bed head.
All of a sudden it is loud.
Not piercing and accusatory,
But boisterous and joyful
All we faithful and triumphant.
We brought mistletoe.
I kissed the lot
And announced I was thirsty.
Spiked cider!
Ma favorit.
And then the stockings came out.
No lie, they were 4' high.
The boys had their matching pair.
And I was given one too;
An old woolen English Army sock once worn by Fatty's grandfather,
My beloved pub crawling companion whom I met at the tail end of last summer.
One item was a "romance package" containing massaging tools and synthetic rose petals.
Upon opening this gift,
The Comrade: Someone really wants a grandchild.
They didn't have to do it.
The lot of them.
Fatty didn't have to get me chalkboard paint or a Spirograph set or His and Her ukuleles. Besides, if Cosmo was right, he wouldn't have heard me anyway. His family didn't have to supply the most gorgeous dinner or require us to fully fill the large trunk of a cab with entirely fun, useless crap. They didn't have to do it. They didn't have to try to erase the pain from previous Christmases passed. They just did because they love me.
This was the best Christmas since I was 8 years old.
(The one with the EasyBake Oven)
And I have calluses on all of my left hand fingertips to prove it.
I am one step closer to actualising my ukulele dreams.
Whether 29, 37, 58 or 61 years old, Andrew was right: Christmas really is for kids.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
9:20 p.m.
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