X-Mas Files

I must be old. Not "Bah Humbug" old, but I can't seem to get into Christmas anymore. I like the lights and the carols and the decorations and everything, but the problem is that all that stuff just reminds me of Christmas. The time of year when it becomes midnight clear that I really don't have anywhere near enough spare time or spare money.

Maybe if I was rich I'd like it better. I'd take the whole month off--deck the halls, write everybody a Christmas card, figure out the perfect gift for all my loved ones, and at least buy a CD for my not-so-loved ones. I'd be Clark friggin' Griswald stringing up the house with enough lights to be seen with the naked eye from outer space. I'd go up the mountain, cut down my own tree, bring it home and flock the crap out of it. Organize the neighbor kids into an army of carolers and distribute gift baskets to the needy and aged. Come home, build a fire, crank the Crosby, put on a sweater, sit in front of the Yule log, and get all warm and fuzzy while I pondered the true meaning of Christmas.

Actually, I'm not all that jaded and cynical, the main reason I dread Christmas is because I absolutely hate to shop and I'm quite possibly the worst gift-giver that ever lived. It saddens me to confess this, but I once bought my "first" wife a rake for Christmas. You might not believe this, but I really though she was going to be delighted. She'd just undertaken a gardening project in the back yard and I was trying to get her something meaningful. Besides, it was a really cool rake--it was adjustable. I even had to find a great big box to wrap it in so you couldn't tell it was a rake. Shot that Christmas to hell--she acted like it was the only thing I got her. I'm not sure how much of it I can blame on the rake, but three months later she was shacked-up in Florida with a Puerto Rican ex-con. I still have the rake.

Sadly, this part is true as well; and isn't it swell that I've found a fun little way to turn six years of marriage into a couple lousy jokes? Word to the wise, though fellas--stick with the jewelry, leave the gardening tools unwrapped.

The key to being a successful gift-giver is to be a good listener. I asked my "present" wife what she wanted for Christmas the other day, and she became indignant that I should even have to ask. "Haven't you been listening to me?" You see that's the thing. For some reason when my wife is talking to me, I have this supernatural ability to concentrate--on my own thoughts. In the time it takes her to tell me about something that happened at work, I could write an opera.
I suck as a husband--but I think I've got a much better chance with this marriage, because I don't have a back yard.

Anyway she claims she's been dropping all kind of hints, and she's all pissed that I'm so clueless. I'm sorry, but hints just aren't gonna cut it. I need like a day-glow flyer taped to the fridge--wrap one around the remote with an elastic. I'm challenged. I need cue cards this time of year.

I guess the thing I'll never understand is why my wife is so eager for my company when she goes shopping. "No, you've gotta come." Why, for God's sake. You can leave the babies with me and go knock yourself out, we'll be fine . . . go, enjoy--I'll just be a pain in the ass. "No, I need you to come look at this stuff, its really . . . I need you to try it on . . . not sure what color . . . corduroy . . . " {Figaro, Figaro, Figaroooooo}

So it's off to join the Old Navy and try on clothes. I really don't know what I find so unpleasant about trying on clothes in a little booth. Actually, yes I do--dressing rooms are always lit with high ceiling florescents so you look as pasty as a corpse and they all have funhouse mirrors that make you look fat. "How do the corduroys fit?" I'll hear my wife. "Great--I look like Louie Anderson in here. "Survey says . . . ? No sale. Sorry sailor.

Hey, but I wouldn't mind getting my hands on some of that "Performance Fleece." Yup. That's a fashion statement I wanna make, "hey, look at me everybody, I'm gay!!" Alright I'll ease up on Old Navy, but, give me a break with those stupid commercials, already. And what's with the employee headsets? What the hell do they need headsets for? You could throw a Whiffle ball from one end of the store to the other. What are they talking about? "Red Dog to Jackknife, Red Dog to Jackknife--you better get over to sector A, I've got a toddler playing hell with display 5A, over?" "Roger that, Red Dog--I have a visual--you take my back, this baby's mine." But at least Old Navy's not Wal-Mart--that's where you'll find the truly bizarre Christmas shopping experience. It's like Jacob's Ladder in there this time of year. "Honey . . . did that guy have a tail?

I don't know, I sure used to love Christmas--couldn't wait. Christmas Eve--forget about it, I was insane. "Go back to bed, son, it's 2:30." I even used to write Christmas Cards, but I've let that go to weeds and believe me, you've got to send Ôem to get Ôem--I'm lucky to get one from my Mother. In fact, if any of my good friends or relatives are reading this, May the Joys of The Season . . . you know what I'm talking about. Merry Christmas everybody.