FALLING INTO DISGRACELAND 

FALLING INTO DISGRACELAND

I am a Scrooge. Bah, humbug and all that. I don’t put up a tree or make cookies or send out cards or drink eggnog. And I didn’t really want to write about Christmas this week, but I’m going to anyway. You see, I hate Christmas. And yes, I’m shallow, so it has a great deal to do with the stuff I’ve never gotten but have so sorely deserved. I work my fingers to the bone trying to make people happy and all I get are stupid joke of the day desk calendars and the occasional tube of chapstick. Where, I ask you, are the furs, the diamonds, the Gucci handbags? That’s what I really want. Okay, I’m joking. I would never wear fur. But I still have bad feelings toward Christmas. Today I was reminded of a story. It has no bearing on anything, but I’m going to tell it anyway. There was a time when I, a girl whose favorite colors are still pink and purple and who likes to watch Lifetime television for women, was less girly. It was very early on, but I wore little elastic-waisted pants and pig tails and my favorite thing to do was climb trees in our backyard. Even then, I wasn’t very agile, so I would wrap my little arms around the trunk and slowly inch my way up the tree. In the process I ripped probably every pair of pants I owned. But this story centers on a pair of emerald green sweat pants that ripped conveniently on the back seam, down near the bottom. Jeans, you see, could be patched with a similarly colored piece of denim. But green cotton? My mother said she would never find a color close enough to match; the pants had been washed too many times. Instead she proposed a iron-on patch. Of a huge green frog. She ironed it on there, too. No matter how much I begged and I pleaded, she thought it would be cute. And I never wore those pants again. I simply refused to have a cartoon amphibian smack dab in the center of my ass (of course back then I used the word behind, but the point is still the same), metaphorically ribbiting every time I took a step. Oh, no. I really just wanted to tell that story, but I think it illustrates how my mother and I don’t quite see eye to eye on fashion. And that it’s amazing what parents will do to their children ... make them wear frogs on their butt, not let them watch MTV, name them something like Hubert and so on. Unfortunately for Santas at my household, ever since I for went climbing trees to save my pants, I’ve been pretty much fashion obsessed. Clothes are all I ever want, but it’s a hard thing to buy for someone. They’re not there to try it on. They might not like the color. For that matter, they might not like the collar. There are just too many variables with fashion... and I think, and it’s just a hunch, some of the items I’ve received in the past, well, they are things I’ve wanted but that have been edited according to the giver’s tastes. My brother totally got the better end of the bargain; every year he’s asked for a new playstation-like device or some sort of high tech computer game. There are very few variables there. I know I would like Christmas more were I filled with the holiday spirit: it’s all about giving, not getting; it’s the thought that counts, etc. Honestly, I love giving stuff, but sometimes when I get, I have to wonder, what thought was this? At any rate, this year I’m going to try to be more Christmassy, maybe sing a few carols, figure out what a yule log is. And if I don’t get what I want? I’ll just go buy it myself at the after Christmas sales.

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