Christmas Checklist

Some people like to do it at night. Others enjoy it in the morning. Yet others do a little the night before and finish off when they wake up the next day. I am talking about the tradition of opening Christmas presents, of course, and the time of day when your family has their gift-opening, is just one tradition in an endless series of traditional choices every family makes to create their version of “the perfect Christmas”. One of the most enjoyable aspects of Christmas is the time-honoured traditions we, as a family have developed over the decades and we, as a culture, developed over centuries. I find it fascinating how that each family forges their own set of traditions which are as unique as the individuals that spawned them, as they create their idea of the Ideal Yule.

Here, then, is a collection of my own Christmas checklist; traditions that must be observed for me to feel I have had the complete Yuletide experience.

Forwarding Christmas jokes via email is a relatively new tradition, given the age of the medium, but one already entrenched in our culture. They start about the same time as the Christmas sales and are almost as plentiful. My favourite so far: Did you hear about the dyslexic devil worshipper? He sold his soul to Santa.

Watching Christmas movies is a centuries old tradition that dates back to times before electricity when they had to watch their portable DVD's by torchlight. However, in my books, you can keep your “Jingle All The Way” and “The Santa Clause”. I'm an old-school kind of guy (What a surprise).”It's A Wonderful Life”, “Miracle on 34 St.”, and of course, the most classic of them all, “Charlie Brown's Christmas” are my style. I even like Rudolph and Frosty although I find “Little Drummer Boy” a bit disturbing. It's not often, after all, you see a cartoon where the protagonist's parents die at the beginning of the show unless the protagonist becomes a super hero.

On Christmas Eve, driving around the town looking at all the gorgeous Christmas lights is one of my favourite customs. Who cares that the carbon footprint of this activity is the size of the tar sands (sorry we call them the “oil sands” now), Cupcake and I have been making the annual pilgrimage around the town since the boys were just wee lads. Luckily, Calmar is so small you can actually drive down every street and still be back home in time for “A Christmas Carol” with Alastair Sim.

Letting the kids open just one gift on Christmas Eve is another of our traditions that began when the kids were still young enough to intimidate. Ah, the good old days. In our household, Cupcake invariably selects the Christmas Eve gift and her annual choice is always, without fail, pyjamas. Kind of takes the fun out of it but, hey, Cupcake needs her little traditions, too.

Opening stockings on our bed is a tradition in our house I've never agreed with. When I was an anklebiter, the whole point of the stocking was to keep us kids busy for an extra half an hour or so for my folks to get a little bit more sleep. Our kids always demanded that we open our stockings together, however, and our big, comfy bed appeared to be the best place. So much for extra sleep.

There's another tradition I've come to expect, happens annually, as sure as Boxing Day sales follow Christmas. That tradition is having Cupcake fret over whether this dish or that didn't turn out the way she'd hoped. It cracks me up. This is a centuries-old phenomenon, considering Dickens took great pains to include the fact that Mrs. Cratchit was concerned about the amount of flour in the pudding. It is amusing to see Cupcake in a flap over over-done glazed carrots or dry stuffing, despite the fact the whole tableful will be attacked with such gusto, afterward, it would appear a plague of locusts had joined in the meal.

Baking Christmas treats is another wonderful Christmas tradition. The goal is to create desserts and snacks with the most amount of calories per square millimetere. Take the traditional Christmas fruit cake. A 1.5 ounce piece, which, given the substantial weight of the cake, is about the size of an Icy Square, contains 139 calories. Given that the portions doled out by elderly female relatives, a major source of the delicacy, are many times the 1.5 ounce serving means every slice is worth about the average person's 2000 calorie/day limit.

Last but certainly not least is our tradition of making home-made Irish cream, with the following recipe:
1 bottle cheap rye whiskey
4 tablespoons of chocolate syrup
4 tsp instant coffee dissolved in
1 cup of water
1 egg well whipped
2 cans Eagle Brand condensed milk
1 500 ml container of whipping cream

Okay, I've got my checklist ready. Bring on the holidays! Merry Christmas Everyone!

Tree for the show

“Honey....” Cupcake's voice dripped more sweetness than a Lindor chocolate dipped in maple syrup. Years of experience has taught me that when she uses that particular voice, the next thing out of her mouth will be as unpleasant as a shot of Buckley's Mixture with a Brussels sprout juice chaser.

“It's time for you know what!” she said with guarded excitement.

“Oh boy!” I enthused, tongue firmly in cheek. “I'll get the scented massage oil!”

“Not for that, you know what, the other one,” her frustration-drenched response prefaced her patented eye-roll. “It's time to bring the Christmas tree down from the attic so we can decorate it! Are you sure you still fit through the trap door? Are you saying I'm bigger around than our tree?” I tried to sound as hurt as possible.

“All I'm saying is that when you press the tree limbs against the trunk, the tree gets smaller. However, when you press YOUR limbs against the trunk of YOUR body.....”

“I get it, already..” I interupted her drivel. “Let me say how much I appreciate you monitoring my girth.”

“It's my job,” she snickered. “And not a pleasant one, either!”

After a quick trip into the attic, quick, that is, apart from the time spent stuck in the entryway into the ceiling (apparently the hole had gotten smaller since the previous year) I retrieved our festive fake foliage.

As I wrestled with the gigantic decoration, I could smell the artificial pine scent on the artificial tree. Cupcake sprays it on to make it smell more natural, oblivious to the irony of it.

“We should have got some eggnog to drink while we decorate,” I said, trying to get into the spirit of it. “I had some at Jeff's that was just awesome!”

“Eggnog? Gross.” her face contorted in remembered digust. “It's like a super-sweet barium smoothie. There's a reason you don't see it all year round. The stuff Jeff served up was probably half rum.”

“It did appear thinner than most eggnog,” I admited. “I just thought it was eggnog lite. Okay, then how about a Christmas movie while we decorate? That sounds great!” she responded joyously. “How about 'Die Hard'? It starts out with a great rendition of “Let It Snow”.

“I was thinking of something along the lines of  'Miracle on 34th Street'. 'Die Hard' as a Christmas movie? You're just hung up on Bruce Willis,” I observed.

“Heh heh... let's just forget the movie,” Cupcake defensively changed the subject. “We'll just put on the Christmas Tree channel. Can we put on the Fireplace Channel instead?” I enquired innocently. “I find it less repetitive than the carols on the tree channel. I'm sure that celebrity Christmas albums outnumber available Christmas songs by at least a thousand to one. In fact, the only Christmas album I can listen to all the way through anymore is Boney M's. Their rendition of 'When a Child is Born' always chokes me up.”

“Honey,” Cupcake snorted in amusement, “Even Lego commercials choke you up. You are such a sap you could be a donor if a tree needed a transfusion.”

As Cupcake opened the box of ornaments our banter trailed off. Looking at the collection of memories in that box was like a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past. I found Junior's special “Baby's First Christmas” hand painted bauble and smiled at the recollection of the first time it had graced our tree.

Out came more decorations. There was the paper angel Matt had made in Kindergarten. Its halo has been taped back into place a mite crookedly and it's once-white dress now looks bedraggled like the angel had rolled a homeless woman to get it. Matt was so proud of it at the time. Now he says it just looks tacky and doesn't understand why we don't just toss it. Yeah. Right. He doesn't understand that each one of those decorations, particularly the ones the boys made as they grew up, are vital to our whole Christmas experience. They are sacred pieces of the elaborate mosaic we call “Christmas Spirit” and evoke as many memories as an old family photo album.

“What about this cheapie reindeer ornament?” I held out the item in question. Thin felt once covered all of the brown plastic. Coverage was now more spotty in some areas and there was evidence of teeth marks, although not sure if it was child or dog . One eye was missing. “Surely this doesn't have sentimental value.”

We looked at it briefly and then said in unison, “We'll put it in the back of the tree.”

As we talked about our favourite holiday moments from yules gone by, I was struck by an odd thought. It occured to me that remembrances of the past seasons is rarely about the gifts we received, yet that is what we spend the most time and effort on. Humans are an odd bunch.

Hotel Hell

Remember last Friday? The snow was flaking unreal! We got so much shovel-ready precipitation, my Nova Scotian neighbour, Cec, was almost impressed. To her, anything under a meter is a mere skiff. Mind you, as I'm typing this, it's her hubby, Cam, I see shovelling their 50 meter driveway. I'd help but I have this column to write, eh.

As it happened, the blizzard struck on the same day the company I'm employed by was taking inventory. Not only were we to work far into the night (at my age, 9:30 is far into the night) but also had to return early the following day for the computing part of the counting festival. No exceptions. The only way to be excused from the process was if you had a note from your mortician.

As I watched out the store window at the wind-blown blast, I debated my options. Cupcake, aware of the scheduled conditions, had insisted I pack some essentials in case I chose to hotel it close to the office. I'd complied grudgingly. I've braved some pretty hairy driving conditions just to sleep in my own bed. I was resolute a little snow would not stop me.

Until I looked outside, that is. It was snowing sideways. I watched as a sanding truck skidded out of control and did a three-sixty. Maybe the hotel idea wasn't so bad after all.

Phoning around for decent, discount accommodation went poorly. The least pricey place I found was $126.00, including tax which, given my late arrival and early departure, worked out to almost $16.00/hour. There are darned few things I would willingly pay that kind of dough for.

However, eyeing the crotch-deep snow (stupid 29 inch inseam) I finally deemed it my most prudent alternative. Picturing the perils of Devon Hill, once tonight and again the following day, chilled my blood colder than the Frosty the Snowman's knickers (Oh wait, he didn't wear clothes... hmmm..)

As soon as the last stock bin  was counted, I fired up my trusty Kia, and followed the ruts down 184 Street to my temporary digs. For legal reasons I can't name the place but it rhymes with Gravelodge; a snot-nosed-kid-friendly hotel chain. It featured an arcade room, waterslide pool and the sound of little feet running up and down the hallways at all hours of the night with parental-sounding voices yelling at them to be quiet.

Inside the room I did the time-honoured routine of all hotel guests and turned on the lights, sampled the softness of the bed and checked the bathroom for thugs, miscreants and terrorists. I assured myself I was the only undesirable in the room and called Cupcake to tell her I was safely sheltered

“I know!” I told her excitedly, “how about you drive into town and join me? Drive slowly, of course. Safety first!”

Amazingly, she declined.

When I hung up from our too-short conversation, the silence in the room was deafening. Other than the thundering little footfalls outside my room from over-sugared yard-apes.

I switched on the TV.

Not being a TV person, none of the scrolling choices appealed to me and I switched it off in disgust. It didn't even have the Christmas Tree Channel.

I noticed a video game controller on the TV stand and fumbled with the remote to fire it up. Finally  decent entertainment! I gulped in shock and disappointmnt that the selection of games available dated back to the months of Kim Campbell's short-lived government and the start of another disaster; the first Iraq War. Worse yet, the vultures at the hotel's pricing department wanted $6.95 plus tax per hour to play the creaky games. $6.95 an hour! Factoring in my previous computations, that would make an hour of Super Mario 3 cost over $23.00!  I went back to my $16.00/hour TV hoping desperately the shows had gotten better since the last time I checked. I surfed briefly, ultimately settling on Howie Mandel's “Howie Do It”. Five minutes of that was all I could take before I turned it off again. Watching the blizzard was better than that.

I rummaged though my hastily thrown together overnight bag. I recalled packing a book and my hand-held Sudoku. I grabbed the book and headed for the bath. Nothing beats reading in the tub. I wondered on the way, however, how many other people had been in that tub and just how diligent the cleaning staff may of may not be.

I decided to skip the bath.

The bed, too presented some concern about it's previous occupants. I'd been reading articles about how bed bugs have become a problem. I decided to sit in the faux-leather chair by the desk to read. I hoped nothing icky could live in Naugahyde. I looked at the title of my fiction selection and sighed mightily. I'd began reading a three book sci-fi potboiler and noticed I'd inadvertently grabbed Book Two by mistake. I tossed it aside in frustration and played Sudoku til the battery died. I went to bed to escape the oppressive boredom.

Sleep eluded me amid the strange sounds in my lonely environment. I mulled over my new knowledge. Hotel rooms are way less fun without Cupcake.

Wish List

Last week I went through an annual experience that is as unpleasant as it is inevitable. No, it wasn't my yearly prostate exam, but something almost as much a pain in the butt. What transpired was Cupcake bearing down on me with intent in her eyes and The Dreaded Question on her lips.

“What do you want for Christmas?” she asked, her tone more pointed than a poppy pin. She offered a blank piece of paper and a pen for my list of “wondrous Christmas wishes” or some similar Christmas ad-inspired festive claptrap.

I sighed mightily before responding. As I have explained to my dear, sweet bride, for eons, I neither need nor want a bunch of store-bought stuff. It isn't trying to be noble or anything. I am not greed-free. No one is. However, if I want something through the year, I go get it. I'm worth it, I say, and even Cupcake may one day be convinced.

Admittedly, it's rare for me to actually buy something for myself anyway. The things I enjoy doing don't lend themselves to accessorizing. Whether it is acting, writing, surfing the net, or even playing darts, I am involved in activities that don't require anything in the way of Christmas gifts to make them better. I don't for example, need special “typing gloves” or a “keyboarding helmet” for when I'm  computing. Nothing I can think of would enhance the experience, other than maybe Cupcake waving palm fronds over me as I surfed; something she has indicated she would rather not do. Actually “violently opposed to the idea” was how she worded it.

You see, when I enjoy computer time, I mostly check out news sites and read the moronic comments of the armchair analysts that often follow the news and opinion pieces. When I am fed up with all the doom, gloom and negativity (and that's just from the Oilers reports) I need a guffaw break and check out www.failblog.org and feel superior for a while. I don't do a lot of “gaming” unless you count the countless hours I've spent playing solitaire or FreeCell while talking on the phone or while waiting for a page to load. (I can't remember the last time I've played solitaire with a real deck. Dealing all those cards would take forever now. We just can't spare that kind of time while we're relaxing. Computers for all their speed have not made us more patient people.)
(But I digress.)

As I was saying, darts, too, don't require a great deal of accessories. There's the occasional need for shafts and flights but they are cheap like borsht and last a fair amount of time. Mine, in particular, last for months since my darts rarely go near one another in the board. The only dart accessory needing replacing on a steady basis is dart lubricant, which comes in brown bottles and goes great with clamato.  There's also a high-end extra-strength lubricant formula which comes with a worm at the bottom of the clear glass container. Cupcake sneers at these sports aids claiming they're inappropriate Christmas gifts, however, she thinks they aren't in keeping with the spirit of the season. I pointed out the first thing monks did when setting up monasteries throughout history was to grow grapes and make wine. Unfortunately, Cupcake always fails to grasp the significance of my historical examples to legitimize my behaviour. “Does it have to be booze?” Cupcake snapped, a bit sharply, I thought, given the subject matter being discussed was my personal happiness. “You like food too.”She pointedly eyed my midriff area. Well, not all at once, obviously.“Exactly!” I tried to keep the 'I got you now' sound from my voice and failed. “I get a bunch of yummy, rare treats at Christmas and then you make me go on a diet at New Years! How cruel is that?”

I explained to her another issue I have with producing a list of things I covet is that writing it out makes me feel crass and greedy. To quote Cupcake on a different topic, “It doesn't mean as much if I have to ask for it.”  I would much prefer one single gift with a lot of thought behind it as opposed to a plethora of presents available at your average mega-mart. Choosing a gift because you really know and understand that person is so much more valuable than simply more stuff.

I then pointed out to my Extremely Significant Other that whatever stuff she buys, she also has to come up with a place to store it. Our tiny abode is already jam-packed with years of accumulated other stuff and finding places for new stuff is nearly impossible. The stuff of dreams becomes a nightmare.

When I tried to explain my position, however, Cupcake withdrew the pen and paper in full huff with a snit chaser.

“Fine! You... you... Scrooge you!” she raged.

“Thanks, honey!” I beamed in glee.“What do you mean?” she squinted in suspicion.

“Well, the whole point of the book, “A Christmas Carol” was that Scrooge became as, as Old Chuck Dickins put it, 'and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge'. What a wonderful compliment!”