Hello, my name is Mr. Bus Guy and I am a Scrooge.
(group) Hello Mr. Bus Guy!”
I’ve always had this jaded, kind of blah feeling about Christmas, ever since I could remember. When I was young, it seemed as though if there was going to be a family blow-up, it happened at Christmas.
Oh, sure, I have pleasant memories here and there. Like when I was 16, and my cousins and I were in my Grandfather’s room with him on Christmas Eve night and he was telling us all about life as a cowboy in Mexico in the 20’s, and he mentioned smoking reefer….My cousin Phil producing a joint, and about 4 of us taking the 84 year old man for a “walk”……The times we would go to my cousin Diane’s and eat and drink like Romans (probably a bad analogy for Christmas, but hey…).
But it’s always seemed to me like Christmas is chock-full of things we “have” to do. Nevermind how depressing the commercialism gets to me, it’s the rush of things you’re EXPECTED to do, people you HAVE to see and such that just wears me out. No, it’s not age, it’s always been this for me.
Short story that led to a practice that has at least been a salvation to us: Bus Kid’s first Christmas. She’s two weeks old, and it was below zero. We lived in the Roach Motel in the SW side of the city. Get up early, drive to my folks house in the far SW suburbs, stay for early dinner, all the while dodging the inherent evil-bitchness that is my sister. Mid-afternoon, after it’s started snowing, we HAVE to go to her mom and stepfather’s. In Dolton. For those of you not familiar with the area, this is no simple easy drive. No quick route, and remember, it’s snowing. Get to their house and do all the same evil Christmas-ness all over again, only this time in an atmosphere of thick cigarette smoke. And being forced to eat yet another gut-busting meal. Finally made it home sometime after 11 PM, exhausted and cranky. That night we vowed as a family that if the damn grandparents all have to see the baby for Christmas, they come to us. Each Christmas since has seen us all in PJ’s all day (Bus Kid), or sweats/jeans and sweatshirts. And staying home. You’re welcome to drop in, we encourage it, but don’t ask us to go see you.
A side benefit to this cocooning is that our Christmas Dinner is ours to choose. Some years we have a nice roast duck with the fancy china and all the trimmings. But a few years ago, I did a nice steak dinner with T-Bone’s for all. This year, the consensus seems to be a big, freaking bowl of chili. Yup, Christmas Chili. You want to bitch at our non-traditionalism? Stay home.
Part of my basic Scrooge-ness since I’ve been married is the behavior of the Bus Wife. I love the woman. She’s funny, weird, beautiful, outspoken, full of surprises (this is where, if I were not a gentleman and discreet, I would mention the incredible spontaneous romp in the walk-in closet the other night when we got back from dinner at Buffalo Wild Wings) and a great mom. Of course, this all makes her insane.
Starting with Thanksgiving, she becomes the Evil Woman Who Must Do It All. I am allowed to put the tree in the stand, because that requires tools and strength. If there are lights to go outside, they are minimal, but they are also mine. Then I am finished. This year, there’s a string of snowmen lit up, one of those 3’ snowmen with lights on the porch, a wreath and red/green light bulbs in the sconces outside. Ta-fucking-da. 15 minutes tops.
Then comes the parade of cardboard boxes coming up from the basement, full of decorations and ornaments. These will sit in the front room for weeks while each night, she does a bit more “decorating”
Did I mention the wife being TV addicted, and at the best of times, only moderately industrious? So this process can literally take a couple weeks.
Now begins also the Fretting Over The Abundance of Places We Are Scheduled To Be, and the Becoming Depressed Over the Financial Strain of the Holiday. These are her constant companions. Start a conversation with her this month on any topic you choose, and within seconds one of those two will be brought up.
The effect of global warming on the agricultural economies of South American countries? Yeah, speaking of South America, can you believe our friends with the Ecuadorian wife? They go and plan, at the last minute a surprise party for their son on the 23rd, and of COURSE we’re going but I was going to get a lot of baking done that night.
Oh shit. The baking. Sorry, did I not mention the baking? There’s this recipe. Harvest Bread or something like that. Cans of pumpkin, chocolate bits, chopped almonds, flour, spices. Sometime before it all starts, there’s the ritual Softening of the Butter. This is accomplished by leaving mixing bowls with sticks of butter in random places throughout the kitchen. Once, the cats almost got fed butter for dinner. My bad.
Anyway, this bread. Well, damn, let’s just say I’d be really shocked if this year she didn’t think it was a nifty idea to bake bread for all “your weird friends on the SDMB” (Yes, that’s what you’re all called). Who gets a bread? Oh fuck me, everyone gets a bread. All the neighbors. People she works with, even the two she hates. People I work with. “Good” Avon customers. Anyone fortunate enough to have us over anytime between December 1st, and New Years. She left one in the mailbox one year. Minimum 18-20 of these damned loaves.
It’s tasty, but to me something really tasty is something I’ll have a slice of once a week. What I wouldn’t give for there to be a horrible pumpkin famine one year, just to stop that bread from being made.
So, we have the stressed wife, trying to do everything while worrying about money and finding time to do it all, while at the same time making sure she doesn’t miss The Donald, Nip Tuck or whateverthefuck tonight’s show is. This is a comfortable atmosphere, eh?
All, I will remind you, in preparation for a holiday I have no real love for in the first place.
So, how do I do it? How do I not just go postal, or lay down under a bus?
I have learned the value of not getting involved. Those boxes of ornaments? Yup, babe, you want them up, knock yourself out. Same goes for all the hanging elves, lighted Santas, knick-knacks and doo-dads you must display.
Oddly enough, when The Day comes lately, I perk up a bit. In part because of a cast in stone tradition that the Bus Kid and I established about 8-9 years ago. First understand that the Wife does all the worrying over what we give distant family members. Oh, she consults me, but in every case, the answer is “ok fine”. This leaves the Kid to only have to shop for the wife, and me for the kid and the wife. Each “last Friday before Christmas”, me and the kid hop in the car, have a quick dinner, and head to Oakbrook Center and knock it all off at once. She gets my sister’s kids something, I sneak off and buy her a few things in addition to what the Wife has been squirreling away all year, and I grab a couple things for the wife. All very efficiently done. Last year, we knocked that all off in 3 hours, and had time to stop at TGI Fridays on the way home for vanilla bean cheesecake and beer. (For me). This year, the trip will be this Friday, because now that she has a job in retail, the 23rd is for working 12 hour days.
Once I’ve gotten that ritual done, I feel a bit better about Christmas, at least for my own family, yet not completely, because I know, I KNOW, the second we walk in the door, I’ll find a kitchen full of grumpy wife and those damn stoneware loaf pans.
Yeah, Merry Frigging Christmas to you too. Wake me up around the second week in January.
