St. Nick has it right. Visit people only once a year, and you’re always welcome.
Despite our storms, rain, wind, sleet, snow, even Scrooge would humph that New York’s a winter wonderland. I mean, Florida at Christmas and New Year’s? Santa shloomping around in shorts? Mrs. Claus in flip-flops?
The world rushes to see our town dressed up in its holiday finery. The Snowflake, Winston’s and Bulgari’s bejeweled building, Cartier’s beribboned giftbox window, the Rock’s skating rink, The Tree, Saks’ windows, FAO Schwarz’s Plaza, the Plaza’s fountain, skinny Santa wearing fat beards and clanging bells.
The city’s as enticing as Britney Spears’ navel.
But, being a grinch, I have a growl. Those greeting cards that no Latin pharmacist can read. Printed in big block gold bold letters is “Seasons Greetings.” Great. This I can read. But this I also know.
What I don’t know is the handwritten signature. A one name-only flourish. Not something conclusive like His Excellency Sir Horatio Bullhirn Fineman the Third. Just one short scrawl. Either Tina, Toni, Tom, Tim or Terry. Maybe even a shaky version of Tess. Also could be Pina, Poni, Perry, Pom, Pin, Pam or Perry. Pippa, no. She’s too busy shaking her behind.
These senders know me so well they needn’t include the surname? I begin to fret and sweat. Did I forget to send them a card? Did I include them in my gift list? I start to obsess as to whether or not she/he/they/it invited me to their New Year’s party. And if not, why not? And if so, did I thank whoever-it-is?
If they were my friends, they’re not anymore. The card made me so nervous that I now actively dislike this kindly well-meaning illegible human who remembered me.
Also stop with joyeux noels that feature photos of the family. It’s Yuletide. Better to see shots of Donder and Blitzen. Maybe an elf. Close-up of baby Gregory? Who cares? Who even knew there was a baby Gregory? Does this mean I must now run out and buy something for this kid I didn’t even know they had?
Especially since those parents spend money like it’s cement. To cough up the check a restaurant has to give their wallet a Heimlich maneuver. I’m not saying the daddy’s cheap. I only say he was 43 before he ever used a withdrawal slip.
Therefore, my original plan would’ve been, had I finally learned of baby Gregory, to vamp until the kid’s wedding before acknowledging him. Then, with no way to avoid it, I’d spring for the usual gift. A picture frame. A silver one. An on-sale silver one.
Another thing. The card with the paw print. I’m a dog lover. I’ve written books about them. I’m on the ASPCA board. I run the annual Blessing of the Animals. But embossed letters on sprinkles that say: “Happy Holiday from the Delaneys and Ruff-Ruff”? Please.
I feel stupid staring at that paw print. One such oversize card fell on my kitchen floor with a large beagle’s full face staring out, and my jealous Yorkie — with no sense of Loving Thy Fellow Animal — peed on it.
Worst is the cretin who encloses five full single-spaced typed pages detailing his past year. How Phyllis and Mama Sally took Kurt, Angela and Halley away and how in Indianapolis a Dr. Redding patched them up when they cut their knees but that was nothing because Max and Gloria came with Dora and Phil to take us to Marvin and Lisa who were entertaining Bridget and Don. And on and on.
Had I yearned to hear so much from this human in the first place, I’d have visited him personally and would have gleaned all this B.S. already. So, a)I hadn’t seen him because b)I didn’t want to and c)I have no interest in learning the chapter he’s sending me. If I could spare this much time for reading, I’d open “War and Peace.”
Another favorite is the nudge. Like: “Happy 2013 from your garage attendants Chris and Sal.” Translation: “Want your front fender dented?” Another is, “Greetings from your friendly postman — second notice.”
Buying presents is another headache. Having no money has no meaning anymore. Cash only counts when you’ve mislaid your credit card. And, basically, a credit card is a printed IOU. Every shopper hands out plastic. One guy asked: “Can I pay my Amex with my Visa?”
Should you think it’s the thought that counts, just try shipping someone a New Year’s gift COD.
So many credit cards and mortgages available today, anyone not in debt just isn’t trying.
Living in a whole world of takers and no givers, Santa’s no longer unique. That wild red outfit, boots, beard, shoulder bag, working only one day a year. Know how many teenagers are doing the same?
I have thoughts:
1) America’s elections should be held Dec. 25th. If we don’t like who won, the next day we could exchange them for something else.
2) Note that those who laugh at Santa are the same ones who believe in campaign promises.
3) If The Magi happened today, those Three Wise Men would be guys who got out of the stock market in time.
2013. May your troubles last as long as your resolutions. And remember, don’t drink so much Monday that you no longer recall why you’re there.