The 12 Pains of Christmas – Part 2

Click Here to read Part 1…

4. The madness of idiots who have somehow passed a driving test at some point in their lives.

  Granted, the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex is not going to win any awards for civility on the roadways. Many of these people are already cray cray, having escalated the art of vehicular insubordination to a level that would stun the residents of smaller towns and hamlets across the nation. I’d almost say that these demon drivers consider it a badge of honor to terrorize neighboring cars as often as possible, but it’s fairly obvious that these folks have long since lost the concept of honor, if they ever grasped such a concept, and they have been reduced to grunting animals who simply haven’t been arrested yet.

  But once we have reached the Thanksgiving milestone each year? Holy COW, does it get wicked, and fast. Maybe it’s the whole Black Friday thing, that shopping hell-frenzy created by retailers, wherein consumers are convinced to stand in line for 72 hours for a DVD player they don’t really need because the one they already have works just fine. (Screw Hi-Def, do you really need to see every single pore on Angelina Jolie’s face? Like she has any. And the plot of the movie is still the same, regardless of whether or not you can see each individual blade of grass in the climactic rescue scene.)

  Yep, that could be the catalyst. We have a shopping day where the Retail Gods convince the peasants that they must fight and rip at each other to somehow gain an advantage in a line that leads to a pointless victory, and then those same peasants are tossed out of the stores once the poorly-planned stock is gone. (Dudes, why advertise a sale if you are going to run out of the product 3 minutes after the store opens?) And the peasants, still pumped with adrenaline, get back on the highways and byways and they are out for blood, because they didn’t get the latest i-Whatever.

  And this uncontrolled dissatisfaction and anger lasts for another month. From T-Day until C-Day, bitter people rule the roadways and cause considerable distress for the smart people who planned ahead and bought what they needed on eBay three months ago, at a better price and without having to sleep in a tent made out of discarded fast-food wrappers in front of a chain store.

  Whatever is stuck in their craw, these mindless zombies behind the wheels of SUVs increase exponentially come Yuletide season, their otherwise-flatlined neural centers minimally reactivated by some holiday trigger. You can be innocently driving to the local supermarket, breathing in the aroma of your eggnog-scented car freshener and thinking pleasant thoughts about a kitten video you watched on YouTube, and BAM, hundreds of out-of-control vehicles are suddenly swarming all over the road, driven by demons hell-bent on forcing you to plummet into a nasty ditch and spill your pumpkin-spice latte.

  So you need to protect yourself. Call your insurance agent right now and demand something like this: “Update my policy to protect me against anything an idiot can do in a functioning motor vehicle. Anything. And maybe throw in a clause or something that will save my ass if I snap and pull some Walking Tall business with a meat cleaver, because it might come to that. And stop sending me those asinine holiday calendars that always go directly in the trash. You’re not on my Christmas list and I shouldn’t be on yours.” Click.

5. The radio stations that start playing Christmas music at the end of September.

  Jesus would not approve of this. Stop it.

6. Those Salvation Army people with their stupid bells.

  Okay, first, there’s that whole mess with the Salvation Army actively doing whatever they can to restrict the rights of gay people in this country, and that some of the loose change you pluck into their rusty bucket goes right into the funding for such an un-Christian stance. (Haven’t heard of this? Go do some clicking on the Web. I can wait.) I’m already not going to give the bell-ringers a single penny, but does that stop them from getting in my face with a device that should only be used to signal the household staff that you’re ready for your bath to be drawn?

  No, it does not.

  Here they come, arms pumping and bells clanging, despite the fact that I’m babbling with my same-sex partner about the latest Lady Gaga CD. (If these fools had read the bylaws of their organization, they would know that my kind are considered the work of the devil, and if you piss us off enough we can direct the paths of hurricanes with our sheer debauchery. Why are you begging for our tainted rainbow money?)

  I just want to walk into the store and help the economy, since some of our elected officials clearly don’t want to do anything about it. I don’t want to fight my way past somebody with irrational focus issues that seems determined to psychologically abuse me with a musical instrument that no one has taken seriously since the Mayflower slammed into that rock. Get. Out. Of. My. Way. Do they train you to do this? That’s some jacked-up wrongness right there.

  Of course, on the flip side of the manic ringers who think that every human walking in their general direction is a beast to be sonically conquered, we have the total-slacker ringers who couldn’t be more obvious that they would rather be doing anything else in the world, including oral surgery. They just stand there in a dirty Santa hat, smoking a cigarette and lethargically waving the bell with a minimum of effort so that the thing only makes tiny clicks. You could throw a Buick into their bucket and they wouldn’t even blink.

7. The trashiness of certain customers in retail establishments.

  I understand that some people are just generally pigs. Nothing can be done about it, they’ve been that way all of their lives, we’re better off trying to rehabilitate the previously-decent folks who are drifting toward a life of sloth and negligence due to experimental drug-usage, unsatisfying romantic relationships, and failed attempts at climbing the corporate ladder. But still, one would think that the Trashy Folk could take a shower and try to be decent during the holidays.

  Sadly, this does not happen. Rather, the Trashy Folk seem to be on some sort of pork-rind inspired mission to prove to the world that nothing is sacred and we all might as well stop reading books and just go rut in the jungle. Specific case in point: The Christmas section at your local Target. Or more pointedly, what that section looks like after the doors open and the unwashed are allowed to touch things.

  Things start out fine, with energetic employees lovingly arranging the products in a manner that inspires joy and harmony. (The concepts, not the backup singers for the latest funk-rap band.) Everything is glowing with childhood memories and a bit of sparkly glitter, because things just aren’t properly festive until glitter is introduced, ask any drag queen. It’s a lovely scene that could probably be in a movie where Sandra Bullock debates which hunky guy would prove more satisfying under the mistletoe.

  Two seconds after those fabled front doors open, you would think you were at a nuclear testing facility in the desert sands of Nevada.

  Fragile ornaments have been unjustly thrown on the floor and shattered, strings of Christmas lights have been ripped from their boxes and stretched all the way from here to the pharmacy (and you can never get those things back in the box), the wrapping paper bins have been knocked asunder like The Three Little Pigs story originally had four porcine characters before the closeted editor decided to chop out the subplot about the gay piggy with his fabulous foil-wallpaper house, and the Christmas candy has been both sampled and spat out in one aisle that is now a minefield of sugared goo.

  What is wrong with people?

8. The Christmas cards that you fully intend to send but never do.

  The art of selecting and sending Christmas cards is truly a fine thing indeed. Or at least it used to be. But that was back in the day when people had both patience and a lack of other things to distract them when the weather turned cold and you could no longer leave the house, just like Laura Ingalls Wilder when she was surviving all those blizzards where they nearly lost the livestock if it weren’t for Pa and his rugged manliness.

  In the current day, three things intrude on the sending of folded-cardboard greetings.

  One: We now have the technology to communicate with each other every day, several times a day if you happen to be one of those miracle people who have jobs where you don’t have to actually do anything. Texting, skyping, group-chatting, sexting. We can reach out and touch anyone as long as we have the right data plan. What’s the point of sending something through the mail if it means you have to wait a week for the payoff?

  Two: Have you looked at the card selections lately in your local chain store? (Assuming that you can claw your way past the bell-ringers and the folks camping out to save three dollars on an electronic device that will be obsolete in 20 minutes.) Most cards these days are inane, aiming at the lowest common denominator with “jokes” that wouldn’t make a sea urchin laugh. And the cost? Ten bucks for four cards. Even more if you want actual envelopes, or a message that hasn’t been so politically-corrected that it’s more boring than the fruit cup at a retirement home.

  Three: Time. Who has enough of that any more, with our crazed rushing to accomplish so much that in the end proves meaningless. Maybe that’s what I’ll ask for this Christmas. Time. I’d like some of that, please, so I can sit down and sip some hot chocolate and watch the tree twinkle and listen to old-school Christmas songs that haven’t been mangled by the latest pop star and not worry about wrapping everything and just breathe.

  But I still want that i-Whatever under the tree as well, the one that can sync all my contacts, allow me to push a button and record my favorite TV show while I’m being booked at the county jail for slapping a drunk Santa, and scrub the toilet until it shines…

To Be Continued…

The 12 Pains of Christmas - Part 1

1. Getting all that crap out of the attic.

  Dragging boxes out of their non-holiday nursing home wasn’t such a big deal 20 years and 30 pounds ago. It wasn’t my favorite activity even then, but I could generally haul the goods in under 15 minutes without breaking a sweat or requiring reconstructive surgery after the deed was done. Then again, those were my “salad” days (translation: broke-ass poor) and I had maybe three boxes of mostly handmade or handed-down yuletidery.

  Now? Good God.

  Just opening the attic door and lowering the ancient ladder causes me to have a small anxiety attack, with whimpering and such. Then I have to rest halfway up that stupid ladder because I’m so out of shape that turning on a light switch wears me out. After the pit stop, I finally make it up to the last few rungs where I can begin the ritual of searching for the invisible hanging chain that is connected to the light that only gets turned on twice a year, four times if something dies up there and we notice an odd smell while watching Survivor.

  This quest for fire, with lots of Helen Keller arm waving, usually lasts at least 5 minutes, two minutes of which are spent recovering from rounds of nearly losing my balance and plummeting to my death. (And of course there’s no one down there to help break my fall. As soon as I utter the hellish words “It’s time to get the Christmas stuff out of the attic”, there’s an instantaneous mass exodus from the house, with relatives and friends and family pets fleeing for their lives, scampering to hide behind bushes and trees and startled neighbors, communicating via walkie-talkie until all agree that the risk of returning is minimal.)

  It’s just me and the mice droppings. Alone again, naturally.

  And when I finally locate the light chain and pull on it with the exasperated fury of a Kardashian who doesn’t yet have her own designer cologne or country, casting a weak light on the contents of the Hell Above Our Heads? Boxes. Boxes from here to China in all directions. Towers of boxes. If you need to hide from the po-po, just head up here, and your story will someday appear on Unsolved Mysteries.

  To be fair, most of this mess is my own doing. As some of you know, I have an obsession with setting out a Christmas Village every year. (You can read some of the sordid details here.) I’ve toned it down a bit for the past few years, but there was a long stretch where my madness for acquiring miniature real estate knew no boundaries, with me snapping up tiny houses with a feverish intensity that nearly, and should have, led to an intervention.  Or an exorcism. Something.

  But even though I acknowledge 97% of the responsibility for the fact that there isn’t a single inch of available floor space in the attic (2 of the 712 boxes have things in them that are not mine, which therefore means that I am not alone in my transgressions and thusly everyone shares in the guilt, even the cats, who own nothing up here), it doesn’t mean I can’t fuss about it. So I do.

  I whine as I’m flat on my belly, my body contorted unnaturally as I stretch for a box of must-use ornaments that have been shoved into a far corner for some ungodly reason, a tiny space where even Jiminy Cricket wouldn’t be able to wear his top-hat, yet the box has been crammed in there somehow. I whine as I stumble-fall down the ladder under the weight of an enormous tub that has 50 rolls of after-Christmas bargain wrapping paper in it. I whine as I’m lying face-down on the couch hours later, my body wracked with spasming muscles that haven’t been used in 11 months, half-heartedly listening to the all-clear alert that has been sounded in the neighborhood so my family can return home.

2. That stupid wrapping paper in the stupid enormous tub.

  We have three of those tubs. Well, at least three that I can identify in a police line-up. (Since I’ve pulled back on my Christmas Village display, from a time when I used to cover an entire 20x40 room down to just a subsection of that abused room, I don’t even use a big chunk of the boxed houses in the attic anymore. There are stacks of houses that haven’t even been inventoried in years. It certainly wouldn’t surprise me to walk (crawl?) around one of those stacks and discover Amelia Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa having tea.)

  Anyway, the wrapping paper. We have more than we could possibly use for the next 50 years. We could wrap a fleet of Buicks in foil paper and not even make a dent in the stock. And I’m not talking about the pointless rolls of paper, the kind where you can only wrap two CD’s and you’re already down to the cardboard tube. Nope, these are the industrial rolls, where a single roll could repave all the streets in my neighborhood and you’d still have enough left over to papier-mâché the Statue of Liberty. Big. Ass. Rolls.

  How did this happen, you ask? Well, there’s a two-fold answer. Exhibit A is the fact that I lose control when they first introduce the new wrapping-paper designs each holiday season. I’m fully aware that we already have enough wrapping paper that activists concerned about the Brazilian rainforest have started an online petition to have me placed in lock-up for the last three months of each year.

  But I still can’t help myself. When I see the shiny new patterns and designs, there are always several that I must have, even if somebody has to get hurt in the process. So I snag the ones I want and throw them into the shopping cart, next to the suntan lotion because the start of the retail Christmas season has officially been moved to Independence Day. Then I lug my purchases home and throw them in a tub and no one ever sees them again. Except possibly Amelia and Jimmy.

  Exhibit B has two perpetrators, myself and my partner. (He’s very tight with his money, never paying full price for anything unless a court order is involved, so he can resist the pre-Christmas temptation of paying 86 dollars for two designer sheets of wrapping paper.) But once Santa has gone back to the North Pole where he can live with hundreds of small boys and no one asks questions about it? Well, we’re both on the post-sales like crack-heads in the flour aisle at Piggly Wiggly.

  How can you NOT buy something when it’s super cheap and you might possibly use it before the end of the century? That’s just un-American. When a roll of paper the size of a cheddar wheel has been slashed to fifty cents, that puppy is going in the basket, even if the design printed on the paper is a little questionable and clashes with the tree decorations and everything else in the house.

  Moral of the story? We never use most of that discount paper. A few rolls, yes, on gifts for those relatives where you are obligated to get them a little something but you really don’t care for them and your heart isn’t in it (don’t lie, we all have those kinfolk), so you end up shoving their present to the back of the tree in that mystery zone where you eventually always find that one present that no one claims to have wrapped, with a name tag of somebody you don’t know. (“Aunt Charlene? Who the hell is Aunt Charlene? Anybody?”)

  Crickets chirp.

3. The Tree of Pain

  There was a time when I was equally divided between having a “live” Christmas tree and an artificial one. Live trees are pretty swell, I love the smell of them and the uniqueness of each tree. Downside? The damn needles that fall off constantly, of course, ending up from one end of the house to the other, aided and abetted by pets who are religiously convinced that these needles must be shared with the world and the bare feet that walk upon it.

  Oh, and we mustn’t forget the watering angle. This is not a particularly taxing aspect of live-tree nurturing, but a healthy tree can suck up gallons of liquid before it realizes that its days are numbered, and it can be quite easy to forget to keep an eye on the bucket of nourishment neath the tree. And when you do forget, two horrid things happen: One, the tree can become so dried out that someone lighting a cigarette at the convenience store two blocks over can inadvertently cause your house to burn down. And two, those damn needles are no longer pliant and less able to pierce the skin. They are now hardened spikes that qualify for regulation by government authorities.

  Now, a fake tree is no walk in the park, by any means. First off, there’s the misconception about the box that it comes in. That box is only adequate storage for the tree parts for a very limited amount of time, namely the duration of the trip from the store where you bought it to your house. Once you slice the binding tape on said box, the Christmas music playing in the background should change to the soundtrack from The Exorcist.

  Because that tree is never going to fit in that box again. Ever.

  Try as you might, it’s just not going to happen. Sure, the first year, you might get most of the parts back into the original receptacle. You’ll sweat your ass off doing so, but the tree has not yet learned that you are its bitch and is still mostly cooperative.

  Within two years you can only get half of the tree parts in the box. Within four, the whole process is pointless. The box now has the consistency of wet toilet paper, ripping apart if you breathe on it, and the only thing that fits in the box is the tree stand, and that thing has lost a critical turn screw (the cat denies involvement, but you know that Fluffy has lied in the past during interrogations) and you might as well throw the stand away. Or at least into the stack of older, rusty stands that have also disappointed their parents.

  The turning point for me? The invention of the pre-lit artificial tree.

  This was a sign that there is a god of some kind, a caring god, one that does not want his/her children to suffer through the mind-wrecking ordeal of stringing lights on a Christmas tree, a horrendous task that the World Health Organization should ban based on the number of divorces and voluntary commitments to insane asylums that have resulted from a burnt-out bulb that cannot be found.

  So it’s been pre-lits for me ever since. You simply connect the various parts of the tree together (using the instruction manual, written by someone making two cents an hour and who really doesn’t know any other English than “Lady Gaga”), connect the various electrical plugs (which can be a bit tricky, since you will initially encounter more female plugs than male plugs, something that historically only happens on the island of Lesbos or at the Dinah Shore Invitational, but keep at it and things will balance out), and then shove the main plug into a socket that hopefully has the blessing of the local chapter of the IBEW.

  Et voila! Pretty lights without the need for attorneys and restraining orders.

  Now, the pre-lit does not get my full love and support. It’s still an artificial tree, and as such, it is subject to the new tree-fabrication technology that allows these things to be manufactured in a manner where the various branches have been so tightly wound together that it looks like a small shrub on the conveyor belt in the factory located in a country that does not recognize things like a minimum wage that actually means anything.

  This production process allows the tree to be nestled in a box that you will never use again. It also means that you must now “fluff” the tree, once it has been released in your home.

  Fluffing = misery. It takes forever to pry the little branch-lets away from the main branch. And you can’t screw around with this prying. You have to shape and mold each little tendril or your tree will look like road-kill. This means that, even though you got the Express Pass with the “not having to string lights” angle, you must still spend a considerable amount of time with the fluffing. Hours and hours. Long enough that by the time you are finished, everyone else has gone to bed.

  Except the cat. The cat who has been eyeing your handiwork for most of the evening, waiting for that sublime moment when you quit jacking with the tree and walk away in defeat, seeking counseling and hopefully prescription tranquilizers. Once you leave the room, the cat will leap on the tree, claw its way to the top, chew off the top third of the tree, and then knock the rest of it over for you to find in the morning when all you really wanted to find was a bagel and some coffee….

Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series…

10 Things I Just Realized While Wrapping Christmas Presents

1. It sucks.

  Granted, there was a time and place when I greatly enjoyed swaddling carefully-selected gifts in whimsically-printed paper. I would spend hours ensuring that each box o’ joy was so meticulously enshrined in festive wrapping that angels would descend from Heaven and sing praises about the craftsmanship. That is no longer the case. Now I just want the dang things done and shoved under the tree as quickly as possible.

2. The discreet use of tape is highly overrated.

  I used to be an acolyte of the school which believed that if you could see the Scotch tape lovingly applied to yuletide packages, then you just didn’t care enough. The tape should be placed so precisely that the gift recipient would swear that artisans of great fame were responsible for the finished product. But I dropped out of that school. Now the tape is used as a binding tool, physically forcing the wrapping paper to do what I want it to do, even if it means we end up with weird wads of paper mashed into the ends of the package.

3. I can no longer cut in a straight line.

  Another skill that has eroded over time is the ability to slice off the required bits of wrapping paper at perfect 90-degree angles from the baseline, thus ensuring that the next person to use the tube of paper has a clean and geometrically-pleasing starting point. My snipping with the scissors starts out swimmingly for the first few inches, but then things go terribly awry and I end up with a ragged edge that looks like the San Andreas Fault. My partner is not amused, and there are heated discussions.

4. I apparently had a fetish concerning the purchasing of “after-Christmas” discount wrapping paper at some point.

  We have tons of this stuff. There are countless bins of paper that I don’t even remember buying, shoved into random corners of the attic. I think it’s fair to say that I won’t need to purchase more wrapping paper until 2027. And some of the patterns I picked out? I have no idea what inspired me to purchase the New Kids on the Block “Figgy Pudding” tribute roll of paper. Maybe I had bronchitis.

5. The TO and FROM areas on gift tags are entirely too small.

  Dear low-paid people who make these tags: Not everybody in America is named “Ann” or “Biff”. Expand, please. And while you’re at it, quit making those glossy tags where the ink smears and it looks like I have some motor-skill issues.

6. I have lost interest in bows.

  These things just irritate me now. Visiting the past again, I actually used to make bows, using rolls of ribbon and this plastic thing with spokes that, after several hours of threading and twisting, would create intricate displays of glossy art, resulting in treasures that would send Patti LaBelle running to the nearest hair salon.

  I don’t do that anymore. In fact, I don’t do bows at all. Just flat packages, because the bows are just going to get crushed when you cram all those presents in the back of the car and drive 20 hours to the house of the relative who is hosting this year’s awkward gift-exchange extravaganza. Nobody likes smashed gift-toppings. Save yourself the pain.

  7. There’s no shame in random gaps in the wrapping.

  So the square of paper that you just cut out is apparently FUBAR and doesn’t adequately hide the entire thingy you are trying to cover? No worries. Just make sure that critical words on the packaging are nicely obscured, and you’re good to go. It’s not like anybody is actually going to care, what with the entire planet being afflicted with attention-deficit disorders of one kind or another. They’re just going to rip the thing open, squeal with fake Southern Belle delight, and then toss the thing aside and never look at it again. At least you didn’t waste any time putting a bow on it.

8. I made the mistake of actually sitting on the floor while doing the wrapping.

  This would not have been a problem in my more limber years. But as well know, things and bodies don’t work quite the way they used to function. Once I was in the lower altitudes, I was pretty much staying there unless a fire broke out in the house. So I’m wallering around on the floor, grunting and trying to reach for the next present that needed to be wrapped, usually one that I had stupidly placed way on the other side of the room. (Side Note: How is it that the scissors that you just used disappear the instant that you set them down and you have to search for five minutes every time you need them?)

  And when I needed a fresh beverage? I rued the day, just sayin. Try convincing Scotch the Cat to go get Daddy another beer. The success rate with that endeavor often leads to disappointment, hurt feelings, and a restraining order. Ungrateful little hairball launcher.

9. Some companies maliciously create products that are difficult to wrap.

  Why can’t they just put the item in a standard box and be done with it? Doesn’t that make more sense for everybody? But noooo, these evil manufacturers insist on the most jacked-up packaging they can design, with odd angles and things that stick out and sharp pointy bits that will rip the wrapping paper to shreds. I think these companies should have to pay hefty government fines until they knock it off and act right.

  Yes, I know that I could just put the unruly gift into a wrap-technician-pleasing box and go from there. But it’s a known household fact that you can never find a box when you need one. Two days ago, of course, there had been hundreds of empty boxes all over the house, tossed in piles by irresponsible people who didn’t care, leading to me bellowing things like “who the hell left these boxes EVERYWHERE!” and to a very quiet evening meal where the perpetrators didn’t say much after I made them haul the boxes to the trash. Clearly, I wasn’t planning ahead.

  And I could also take advantage of those “holiday” gift bags, with their symbols of high-cholesterol Santas and fornicating reindeer. But using a gift bag just seems like a cop-out to me. The bags might as well come printed with a disclaimer stating “It’s two in the morning, I’m tried of wrapping, so I’m just going to throw your over-priced Pier 1 ornament into this bag and cram some tissue on top of it. I still love you, though. Kiss, kiss.”

  Maybe it’s that tissue paper that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I can never get that crinkly mess to look right. Some folks are a wiz at it, sculpting delicate snow angels and an origami Baby Jesus out of the stuff. My tissue paper looks like I ran over it in the driveway and then shoveled it into a designer bag featuring dancing chipmunks and special dots that, if you scratch and sniff, smell just like fruitcake.

10. Despite all of the above, I actually do like to wrap Christmas presents.

  I just have to force myself to set aside a big chunk of hours, pick a room where I can seal myself off from the rest of the house and all those prying eyes (“Yes, you were trying to peek, now get out of here you little urchin.”), make sure I have everything I need so I don’t slip out of the wrapping chamber and get distracted by things like a Will & Grace rerun or a Facebook request that somebody needs materials for their suppository factory in BodyCavityVille, stay focused, and get the job done.

  Oh, and at some point I must play the entire “Christmas Portrait” album by The Carpenters. It’s not the holidays without it, and it takes me back to those innocent, less-bitter, child-eyed times when I really did care about not being able to see the tape on the packages as I wrapped up the tiny, dime-store goodies I had carefully picked out for my family after I saved my allowance for months and months.

  And that strategy worked just fine this evening. I managed to get twenty gifts prepped and ready to go, an admirable amount if I do say. But now I have to get up off this floor, and that’s going to take a while. Thankfully, I was able to convince Scotch to bring me my laptop so I could blog about my experiences while I build up the strength to get back on my feet.

  Cheers.

10 Fascinating Things To Do With Discarded Christmas Wrapping Paper

1. Drive a relative insane.

  Locate a family member who is still visiting in your home despite the fact that they should have left two weeks ago. Follow them around the house, constantly wadding and un-wadding several crinkly sheets of paper. Do this non-stop until they finally turn on you and scream expletives and tell you where you can shove things. Act completely innocent. (Sample response: “I’m sorry, is this bothering you? It’s an exercise my doctor is making me do for my arthritis. You DO want me to retain the use of my hands, don’t you?”) Wait until they go to bed, then stand outside their door and crinkle some more, making creepy groaning noises and jiggling the door handle. They should be gone by morning.

2. Scare small children in the neighborhood.

  Find some old clothes, stuff them with the debris from gifts that nobody wanted in the first place, and assemble a life-like body. Drag the corpse to the curb, sprinkle it liberally with red food coloring, and place a Santa hat where the head should be. Put a sign nearby that says “This is what happens to dumb-asses that come down my chimney when I’ve been hitting the vodka.” Then go back in the house, fix yourself a nice snack tray, and sit at the picture window in the front of the house and wait for representatives of the Neighborhood Association to show up with petitions.

3. Make the biggest ball of Christmas paper known to mankind.

  Start with a tiny wad of paper, then keep adding to it until you have something huge and clearly unnatural sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. Clear furniture out of the way so that you have a good launching path, wait for an unsuspecting family member to come wandering into the kitchen in search of leftover turkey, then hurl the Ball of Death with all your strength. You get bonus points if the family member is knocked airborne and/or suffers a head trauma that jacks with their short-term memory. If accused of malfeasance, point at the dog.

4. Pretend to have a nervous breakdown.

  Wait until the rest of your family is fully invested in some other activity, like watching TV or counting the dust bunnies under the china cabinet, and then run into the room, lugging one of the 24 sacks crammed with wrapping paper that everyone has after the holidays. Yell something inane, like “Do you understand how many trees DIED for this?” or “Don’t cry for me, Argentina!”, then flop on the floor and start weeping dramatically. If your family is unimpressed with your flailing, break wind, because this always leads to lively commentary.

5. Make a new outfit.

  Find the ugliest discarded wrapping paper (hint: this will probably be the paper used by the weird relative who has too many cats and regularly receives citations from the city), and fashion something decadent out of it, like a tube top and a g-string. Once attired, run sluttily into the den, where your over-exuberantly-Christian aunt is watching “Bowling For Jesus” and proclaim “This outfit makes my ovaries tingle!”. Be sure to have a camera handy.

6. Create a brand new holiday.

  Lug some of the paper into your home office (translation: the wee bit of space where your significant other has allowed you to place your computer), run the paper through your cross-cut shredder, and place the results into a ceremonial basket that you have fashioned out of a leftover Chinese takeout container. Now run through the house with maniacal glee, tossing the confetti hither and yon whilst bellowing “The Earth Mother Goddess has given me redemption on this holiest of random celebrations. Praise be!” Then set up a donation booth outside the bathroom, because everybody has to go there at some point. Refuse to give tax receipts, because the IRS is corrupt.

7. Pretend that you’re an ancient Egyptian.

  Wait until one of your more irritating family members has retired for the evening, innocently nestling in their bed for a night of slumber. Sneak into their room, and proceed to cover their body with wrapping paper and copious amounts of decoupage glue. (Be sure to leave them air holes, because those 9-1-1 people can be SO critical about minor details.) For extra style points, leave a small sign at the foot of the bed that reads “Here lies Cleopatra’s wine servant. The stupid tramp fermented the wrong thing and she had to go.”

8. Create early-morning confusion.

  Pile all of the discarded wrapping paper into the communal shower. Pretend that you have no idea how this could have happened. For style points, act like you are Bette Davis discovering that she might be a lesbian after all. This makes no sense, but it’s fun.

9. Try to get your money back for the wrapping paper.

  March into Target, dragging behind you a sack of the wadded paper. Explain to the gum-chewing attendant at the returns counter that you are not satisfied with the performance of the wrapping paper. Angels were supposed to sing upon opening, and this did not happen. At the very least, you want store credit. When the attendant questions the status of the paper, which has been clearly abused by greedy hands expecting a Malibu Barbie, make a hand gesture that is dismissive of anything the attendant might care to say. Ask for a manager. (Cautionary note: If said manager is ugly and hasn’t been laid in months, if not years, you might have a struggle. Prepare accordingly.)

10. Use the discarded wrapping paper to take notes for a blog post detailing the relative insanity of spending quality time wrapping presents that will be ripped to shreds in mere seconds by gift-recipients that really don’t care how much time you spent making things look pretty, and will probably hate the present anyway.

  Which is exactly what I did. Cheers.

The 12 Shots Of Christmas

  Editor’s Note: This is a cautionary tale of what can happen when you mix the gift-exchange process with excessive amounts of alcohol…

Round 1

  On the first shot of Christmas, my true love gave to me… oh, a copy of “Dead Rising 2” for the XBOX 360. He is SO sweet to do that, fully understanding my need to annihilate hordes of people that I don’t like. Granted, this game doesn’t provide a very peace-loving view of the world, insisting that you slaughter people in a shopping mall without getting a chance to really get to know them. But there’s a part of me that simply enjoys indiscriminate gore and bloodshed. Probably the part of me that also laughs when people trip over nothing and smash their face in the ground. It’s probably hormonal.

  And look at this, he also got me the Game Guide for Dead Rising, so I can be sure to track down every possible person that can be killed in the mall, even if they have nothing to do with the story or the missions. My guy is really thoughtful to include that. I’m just going to place these over here in a clear space on the coffee table, where I plan to stack all of my loving gifts, especially the ones that involve carnage. It can be my death pile. Everyone needs one of those.

Round 2

  On the second shot of Christmas, my true love gave to me… a Kinect for the XBOX 360! You know, one of those things where you don’t even need a controller, you just hop around in front of it and the thing interprets your actions and you either win or lose. It’s very sophisticated and high-tech, the latest gadget that everyone must have if they plan on remaining socially relevant.

  We got to watch folks using one of these at a party a month or so ago. They were leaping about, doing high kicks and such, so it was very exhilarating. They were also sweating, and that didn’t seem as festive. I’m not sure that I need to be moist in public. But I’m glad that my honey remembered that I was interested in the Kinect. Of course, I helped his memory along by declaring something along the lines of “this better be under the tree for me or there will be complications”. There’s a reason why I keep an attorney on retainer at all times.

Round 3

  On the third shot of Christmas, my true love gave to me… (what is in this drink?)… um, some new jammie pants! I love jammie pants! I have tons, but my absolute favorite pair was getting a bit worn out, with a large gaping hole big enough that you could drive a truck through, in a very personal place. Let’s just say that freedom’s just another word for bending over to change the DVD player.

  I think I’ll put these on right now. Oh wait. There’s tags and stuff. I don’t really have the energy to mess with that right now. I’ll just throw the jammie pants on my little pile and worry about things later.

Round 4

  On the fourth shot of Crispness, my true love gave to me… Crystal Bowersox’s CD! She SO should have won American Idol, not that other guy. What’s his name? Lee something? Crystal was WAY better, but I can see how she scared some of the budding Barbie dolls with her questionable teeth color and hairstyles that were not necessarily a wise choice. But that girl could sing. Especially when she did that one song. I can’t remember the name right now. Something like “Go Tell Pa On Walton’s Mountain”. And that other song, about Summer Breeze, makes her feel fine. Apparently her boyfriend stopped making her feel fine, cuz he got the boot. Sure did….

  What were we talking about?

Round 5

  On the fist shot of Crispy, my too love gave to me… This better not be underwear. Whoops. It’s underwear. But I really did need some new pairs. Some of my older pair are paper thin (you can see France!), and the elastic has been reduced to a fine white ash that leaves a chalk mark around my waist. So panties are good. Wait. Where did panties come from? I don’t wear panties. Do I? (Sound of underwear package being tossed haphazardly onto gift pile, with something skittering off the table and crashing to the floor. No one checks to see what it might be.)

Round 6

  On the…. what shot are we on? Six? Are you sure? I thought I already sang that one. Anyway, now we have… (sounds of difficulty with tape applied to resilient wrapping paper)… it’s… oh, an electric Scrabble game! It tells you your score and beeps and everything. This is SO cool. I love it! What’s next?

Round 7

  On top of old seven shot, all covered with cheese… I found my true love, when somebody… I can’t get this one open. Can you do it for me? I’ve REALLY got to pee. Be right back. (Sounds of slightly staggering feet, followed by the distant crash of something that was no longer on the bathroom counter, and the toilet seat being slammed downward with enough force to create a small mountain in China.)

Round 8

  I don’t remember the numbers any more. Just give me another present.

Round 9

  Why is it called tequila? Does it mean something to Spanish people? I wish I knew Spanish. I know French. Well, I used to know French. Somebody knew French, and I think it was me. I’m not sure. Do you really love me? Hey! I have two feet!

Round 10

  I don’t KNOW why I’m crying. That commercial was just SO sad. What do you mean the TV isn’t on? You’re a LIAR. A LIAR! Wait. Who are you? Do you know how to make margaritas? I love margaritas.

Round 11

  I don’t WANNA open nothin’ else and you can’t make me. And I am NOT slobbering on you! Boys are stupid. And plaid. Boys and plaid are stupid. And cars. Why are there so many cars? They’re everywhere. All over the place. With their wheels and everything. Does anybody have any croutons?

Round 12

  On the twev shot tequila crispy… gave me true… the something… LOVE! I love everybody. EVERYBODY! I just want happy and peaceness for Paul, the whole world. I’d like to teach the world to… what is it? Why are there nuns on the crispy tree? Penguins? Who puts… that stupid… I’m so tired… but I love everybody… and if I go to sleep, no more singing and love… for me… and that’s all I want. Peace for Paul. And to all a good… I’m just gonna lay my head on this Kenny box… just for a second… peace… love… all… and croutons…

Best wishes to everyone, wherever you may be and whatever you are doing at this moment in time. Embrace it.

12 Last-Minute Gift Ideas And Some Creative Lies To Go With Them

1. Slim Jim’s from the corner convenience store.


(Take meat out of cheap plastic packaging prior to arrival. Wrap in ugly silk scarf that Cousin Edna got for you 20 years ago and you’ve never worn.) “This is a special friendship log that I ordered for you from Bolivia. It was hand-made by hundred-year-old nuns in a convent dedicated to the log-making skills of St. Felicia the Sturdy-Limbed. They have taken a vow of silence, so I don’t really know what’s in it, but legend has it that you will now be fertile whenever fertility might be necessary. But you might want to stay away from Bolivian sacrificial ceremonies when your loins start to tingle.”


2. The leftover plastic cap from a gallon of milk.

(Be sure to hold cap upside down when presenting with a flourish.) “This is a tea light holder recycled from salvaged parts of Apollo 13. This has actually been on the moon and has been touched by Tom Hanks when he was rehearsing how to look uncomfortable in a tight place. That patch of dried whiteness is actually someone’s sweat from the heat of reentry. Only 10 of these were ever made, and Ron Howard owns 9 of them.”

3. A chicken bone from KFC.

(Light incense just before proffering to recipient.) “This is a special talisman blessed by the Voodoo Priestess Marina del Crotchlina de Taco Bella. She rubbed it profusely during an intricate, midnight ceremony wherein there was chanting and the releasing of orgiastic cries. If you wear this around your neck, you will exude an overwhelming musk that will bring all the boys to the yard. And the dogs.”

4. An empty dry-cleaning bag.

“They have been lying to you all these years. This really IS a toy.”

5. A small tree branch that fell in your yard.

(Prep this item by stripping away ugly limbs to make it more convincing. A splash of red food coloring on the sharp end will be a nice touch.) “This is a battle spear used by the Mayans during the Backsplash Revolution. Some say it’s the very spear used to torture Mother Theresa Quesadilla, forcing her to reveal the hiding place of the Babbling Bishops while she was held captive in a Mexican restaurant. Late at night, if you listen carefully, you can hear the spear asking if you’d like a side of guacamole with that.”

6. An old bucket and a garden hose.

“This was Marie Antoinette’s favorite bidet. I got it on eBay.”

7. The bag of grass clippings that you forgot to drag to the curb on Trash Pickup Day.

(For authenticity, peel the produce sticker off an apple and slap it on the bag, giving it an air of somehow being imported from a faraway land where people speak funny and have odd holidays that don‘t make sense.) “This is mulch from Scotland. It was composted under the very tree where Mary, Queen of Scots, had someone executed for wearing plaid at an inappropriate moment. If you use the mulch properly, your begonias will thrive, and you will feel the growing need to no longer wear panties under your skirt.”

8. The never-read owner’s manual in the glove box of your car.

(Prep work: Cross out any wording on the front, and then seal the book closed with duct tape. Beat book on ground for added effect.) “This sacred book contains all of the secrets of the known universe. But you are not allowed to open it until Justin Bieber is no longer popular. If you open it before then, there is the possibility that he might reproduce, and the planet cannot currently support such a thing.”

9. The spare tire off your car.

“Wear this around your waist and roll down a hill. Everybody is doing it in France.”

10. Beer

I think this one is self-explanatory.

11. Scratch-off Lotto cards.

Because nothing says “love” like making someone perform manual labor on a little rectangle that they will just throw in the trash when they don’t win anything. Translation: “You are disposable to me, and my affection is dimming. Can you pass the pea salad?”

12. Great Aunt Pearl.

Nobody likes Pearl. She’s rude and doesn’t bathe properly. Isn’t it time another family had the opportunity to be berated about everything they try to do in their lives? I think so. Give her away. It’s the Christian thing to do.

Backup Dancers From Hell: Coldplay - “Christmas Lights”

Preliminary Note: Just before watching this for the first time, I noticed a YouTube comment from somebody claiming “the fish eating the boat is the best part!”. What the hell? What am I getting into with this one?

We start out with the camera focused on an old phonograph, with somebody getting ready to play a record of Cold play’s “Christmas Lights”. Okay, that’s what I’m wanting to hear, so that’s good. A mysterious hand gets things going, and we pan down to a strange piano that is playing by itself. Aside from the paranormal angle, we’re also distracted by all of the keys having been painted different colors back in about 1918. Hmmm.

Camera moves away from the piano and we pan along the band members lying on their backs on old wooden floor. (What, they’re too lazy to actually perform in this video? Was the mayo bad in the tuna salad? Has Gwyneth put them in time-out?) We finally get to lead singer Chris, and he starts singing while still laying there. I spy an “X” on one of the floorboards near his head, and I find myself much more interested in what might be under that floorboard than where the rest of this video is going. I need to focus.

Chris is singing really low on this part of the song, and I’m straining to hear, so it’s kind of a relief when the camera pans away. Sadly, we’re back at the creepy piano that is being played by the Ghost of Christmas Past, or maybe his cousin, the Ghost of Videos Where You’re Not Sure What Is Going On. The camera pulls back, and we see that Chris is still on the floor, but the rest of the band is gone. (I didn’t receive a memo on where they might have went.)

Suddenly, Chris levitates from the floor into a standing position. Oh? There is just something really wrong with this place. Chris isn’t bothered that his body was just transported against his will, and he starts playing this Piano of the Dead. The camera pans again, and we see a nice, billowy red curtain, which is hopefully not possessed. The curtain parts, and hey, there’s the rest of the band. They’re playing their little instruments on an old-timey stage. There a cut-out props shaped like buildings in the background, and for some reason I think of Istanbul. I’m probably supposed to think of something else, but I’m very confused.

The guys jam for a bit as the camera moves backwards so we can get a better gander at this stage thing, and we can see that there are some pretty Chinese lights strung across the stage. Okay, are we supposed to be thinking of Christmas around the world? Not sure. The camera moves back in so we can watch Istanbul slide into the wings, and then we have an apparent ocean and a moon rising out of the water. Suddenly, three drunken Elvis’s zip by while playing violins.

Did anybody talk to Graceland about this?

The camera pulls back again so we can see that the band is still playing, but that wasn’t really necessary since we can hear them the whole time. Then we zoom in on Chris still banging on that piano, and he’s singing to somebody that must be in the balcony because he sure doesn’t want to look at us. In the back of the stage, the Elvis’s zip by again, followed by one of Lisa Marie’s lawyers.

Oh wait, there’s that boat getting eaten by a giant fish. Well, then. I can’t really say it was the most exciting development in this video, filled as it was with carnage and violence, but I’ll agree that it was unexpected.

Chris gives up the piano and moves closer to his mates, allowing for a great photo-op. The camera pulls back from the stage, pretty far, so we can see there’s a little marquee above the stage with the words “Credo Elvem Etiam Vivere”. I’m sure there are scholarly people who can interpret this slogan for us, but I’m going to assume it means some character from “The Lord of the Rings” is now living in Las Vegas and helping Santa deliver presents.

The camera pulls back far enough that we can see buildings in the distance over the top of the theatre. One of them looks like the Capitol Building, but I’m going to assume that it’s not, since we’re dealing with British folk who would prefer that the Pilgrims had just stayed home and sucked it up like everybody else. The camera zooms back in on the band, still doing their thing. Now we’ve got fake snow falling down, but it’s clearly just scraps of shredded newspaper, so the magic is a bit thin. But Chris is wearing a carnation, and that makes everything better.

The fake newspaper falls for a while. Somebody was really invested in this part of the goings on.

Then the camera pans to the left, and we’re looking at what I’m guessing is the River Thames. There’s a triple-decker boat floating about, with tons of people on the top deck releasing balloons at just the right lyrical moment. Fireworks light up the sky, which isn’t really something we do in the Colonies during the Yuletide season, but it’s very festive.

Now we’re zooming back into the old-timey theatre, with the Elvis’s playing their violins with a passion and more fireworks exploding from where the seats should be if there had been an actual audience. Chris is really interested in doing hand movements over his head, so we’ll assume that this part of the song is super important to him.

The curtain closes, the camera gives us another glimpse of the creepy piano, and then pans over the top of the theatre so we can see the cityscape once again. More fireworks explode as the music fades and, presumably, Tiny Tim convinces Scrooge that world peace is possible as long as everyone has enough figgy pudding…

　

Click Here to Watch the Video on YouTube.

10 Things I Learned At Crate & Barrel Today

1. I clearly don’t make enough money in my life.

  What do people do for a living that are able to afford paying $150 for a simple white serving bowl with a single, tiny flower painted in the middle of it? I’m assuming that Michelangelo must have done the diminutive artwork, because otherwise there’s just no reason. And a coffee maker that costs $500? An ugly coffee maker that looks like someone just added a filter to my first-grade teacher’s head. After she died.

2. Wireless phones are the new black.

  Every single person in the store was talking on one. (Except me, of course. I politely chose to keep my communication device holstered, shoved into my jeans pocket where it would firmly remain during my visit, unless a startling but strangely-pleasant buzzing alerted my genitals that I had an incoming call.) I don’t think it’s right to meander around a store with a possibly unhealthy chunk of slim metal spewing radiation into my ear, babbling loudly about unimportant things that no one else wants to hear.

  Besides, you need to pay attention to what you are doing, which is, theoretically, shopping, and not analyzing footwear that this store doesn’t even sell, on the phone with your friend Brenda that hasn’t had a job since computers were invented. Do you see that towering stack of limited-edition cocktail glasses, signed by somebody in Sweden who might actually be important some day? If you knock that crap over while distracted with texting your boyfriend from three relationships ago, about tofu of all things, you are never going to make enough money the rest of your life to pay for the damages.

3. How have I lived my entire life without owning an appliance specifically designed to toast your individual miniature marshmallows so that your cocoa is just right while you watch polo being played?

  How? The shame is overwhelming. I am incomplete.

4. There are still actually people named “Muffy” in the world.

  At least I think that’s what her name was. Something like that. She might have been drunk, based on the application of her makeup. In any case, we became fast friends whilst perusing a display of enameled cooking tongs, trying to decide which of the 400 available colors would be appropriate after Labor Day. She babbled constantly. I grunted. Somewhere along the line I learned that she raises Berkshires. Or lives there. Something like that.

5. If you really, really like something, you can’t afford it.

  This scenario happened repeatedly: I would turn a corner, spy something incredible and moving, race up to fondle it delicately, envision exactly where I could place it in my home, timidly flip over the little price tag, and find myself staring at a figure similar to one I had paid for a semester of college.

  So I learned to not even bother with the most attractive things, because there was no point in setting myself up for that kind of disappointment. My mood-stabilizing medication can only do so much before we have to up the dosage. I only became intimate with mediocre and less-attractive things. Which also reminded me of college.

6. You would never know that the economy was in any kind of trouble based on the merchandise piling out of the store.

  Entire fleets of trucks were backing up to the loading dock, with service people scurrying about, transporting the 144 place settings that one of the Vanderbilts had personally picked out. CEO types were marching in the door, barking take-over orders into the phone in one hand, and waving their other hand at the 15 armoires that the Missus needed before the next meeting of the Society for the Preservation of Our Money.

7. The workers in this place can tell if you have money just by one look.

  I was constantly being shoved to the side by bustling employees who had noticed someone behind me with a higher credit-card limit. I was relegated to one of the new trainees, who didn’t know any better, and certainly didn’t know where anything was in the store. I had to assist her with another customer who was looking for the jewel-encrusted fondue prongs. She later asked me if I knew where the bathroom might be.

8. Rich people have a different accent.

  It’s not a real accent, by any means, merely something they came up with during their spare time when they weren’t working for a living. They also like to add extra syllables to words like “really” and “darling”. It’s completely annoying. Then again, if I had enough money to spend the equivalent of the entire national budget of Algeria on a shot glass, I might find it imperative to come up with my own language as well.

9. The checkout people don’t care for it when you buy multiple small items.

  Oh, they pretend to be all polite and everything, but they find it incredibly tedious to actually have to count things, especially lots of things that don’t cost very much. Sorry, folks. I can only afford these pointless tiny spoons over here, that one might use for ladling small amounts of caviar or feeding Barbie. So I’m going to give one to all of my friends and purposely leave part of the price tag on them so they can get the impression I shop here all the time. After all, it’s the Holidays, when people try to impress one another with their gift-giving, and we certainly have to uphold tradition.

10. Apparently it’s a social blemish to refuse a gift receipt.

  I told the little man at least three times that I didn’t need one. (They’re stupid little spoons. If they don’t work out, people will just throw them in the trash and then lie about the disappearance, claiming burglary or some such.) The little man made small, exasperated noises each time I rebuffed his advances. Clearly, this man was completely worn out, having dealt all day with people who didn’t have an ounce of couth.

  His little friend, the Gift Box Lady, was also troubled by the lack of a gift receipt. As she swathed each spoon in crackly packing materials and then shoved them in gleaming white boxes, she inquired on the status of the gift receipt for every single spoon, hoping each time that there would actually be one, and therefore the world could be a better place.

  Eventually, I was allowed to leave the establishment, despite my country ways and gift-receipt illiteracy. I trotted out the door, lugging a bag loaded with spoons, wrapped in boxes that cost more than the actual contents. Before climbing in my car, I turned and waved at Muffy, who was standing on the sidewalk and wondering why no one was bringing her another cocktail…

10 Reasons Why Assembling a Fake, Pre-Lit Christmas Tree Will Suck The Life Out Of You

1. The stupid box it comes in.

  As soon as you dump the various sections of the tree out of the shiny, new box, you might as well throw the box away. You are never going to get all of the tree back in that box. And as the years go by, you will be able to stuff less and less of the tree into the issued receptacle. This means that the “too big” sections of the tree risk being shoved behind something in the attic and never being seen again. Just get a bigger box.

  I do find it highly illogical that what came out of the box will not go back in. It makes sense that it should. Somebody got the tree in there in the first place. Then again, that someone was a little worker in Artificial Tree Land, and this person stuffs trees in boxes all day long. Probably hundreds of them, with a cute little counter that dings merrily every time they seal a box, perhaps even a cookie is served for every five boxes. These workers are certified in tree stuffing. There’s no way you can compete with that.

2. The absence of assistance.

  Your entire family can be lounging on the couch all day, watching pointless cooking shows where vibrant personalities whip up delicacies that no one in your house will ever make. But the second any family member gets a warning sign that tree assembly is afoot, every one of them will race out of the house, off to fake dental appointments or opting for that elective surgery after all. You will stagger down the attic ladder, the tree thumping behind you on each rung, to find a completely deserted house. Even the cat has gone on an impromptu sleepover with Tiffles the Tabby down the street.

  You are on your own. You will not see another soul until the advance scout in the bushes of the neighbor’s yard has used his walkie-talkie to inform all family members that the coast is clear.

3. Things don’t fit where they should.

  Stare at the little diagram all you want, but Point A will NOT fit politely into Ingress B no matter what you do or how much you proffer to Jesus during intense, sweaty negotiations. You will just have to use sheer force of will to ram the piece home, probably completely destroying any chance of the tree ever looking right again. It doesn’t matter. You just have to get through this session. Next year is a long way off. Perhaps there will be a divorce, and somebody else can deal with the violated tree. Or maybe a fire. A very concentrated fire that only destroys a certain bulging box.

4. The concept of “If one light goes out, the rest stay on!” is a complete a total lie.

  This is merely an unsavory sales technique developed by retailers who just want to move the merchandise and don’t care what happens to you once your credit card has been swiped and approved. One of the lights WILL go out, somehow affecting most of the lights on the tree, even though there are theoretically 20 strands on this thing. It will take you 7 hours to find this elusive bulb, mainly because you keep losing your place and/or get so frustrated that you kick the tree against the wall, stomp off, break something in another room, then finally give in and shuffle back to The Room Where Satan Breathes, waving a white flag and starting the search all over again.

5. The best way to determine which strands still need to be connected to the power source is to lie under the tree and gaze upwards.

  The is actually quite helpful, allowing you to see things from a new and exciting perspective. The negative aspect is that, once you pass a certain age, you may not be able to get back out from under the tree and resume a standing position for some time. My advice is to take a bottle of water and pillow before you head down under. You might be there for a while.

6. One miniscule turn-screw in the tree stand supposedly will keep the tree perfectly aligned.

  Another lie. Adjust all you want, loosening and turning and tightening. The tree is never going to stand up without a discernible lean. Accept your fate now. The longer you delay acknowledging the inevitable increases the chances of an adverse psychological reaction. You still have shopping to do, and don’t have time for therapy or possible court cases resulting from you throwing the tree out the picture window and accidentally nailing the UPS guy innocently arriving at your dwelling bearing a fox of Aunt Esther’s Peanut Fudge.

  Just tighten the screw all the way, and then rotate the tree until the angle of the lean is the least offensive. If necessary, hang the heavier ornaments on the side of the tree that is opposite the lean, creating an optical illusion that will hopefully satisfy your less-inquisitive relatives. Better yet, pay toddler cousins to stand inside the branches, hold the tree up straight, and not say a word unless they see Santa.

7. No one is ever fully satisfied with the fluffing.

  Yes, the tree has been mashed offensively during its 11 months in scorching confinement whilst crammed into the attic. You will have to do some repair work on the fake needles and smaller branches, even though there are thousands of them and reparative activities are only amusing for the first 3 needles or so. Do the best you can, but don’t overextend yourself in this area. It’s not a real tree. It will never pass inspection by Tree Survey people, should they stop by unexpectedly.

  Besides, no matter how much time you invest, there is going to be a gaping, unnatural hole somewhere on the tree. And this hole will be found by Aunt Flatulencia when she and her wrinkled nose stagger into the room, hopped up on brandied eggnog and rum cake. Just let her bellow whatever and keep mopping up the apple juice carelessly spilled by one of your cousin-workers in the middle of the tree. (Take the damages out of the little tyke’s  paycheck. He might as well learn now that there are consequences to your actions.)

8. It hurts.

  Granted, “real” trees have those aggressive needles that will slice you to ribbons when you attempt limb adjustment. But the fake ones have their issues as well. (Paper needles can be sharp, people.) And if you have a mature tree that has survived several seasons of your devil-inspired chiropractic maneuvers, there are bound to be little clusters of overlooked ornament hangers that went undiscovered during the security clearance last year (just before you shoved part of the tree into the box that’s supposed to hold all of the tree and threw everything back in the attic).

  These bits of twisted metal can lacerate an entire hand in a few seconds of stunning savagery. Proceed carefully. If necessary, ask someone that you don’t really care for to do a safety inspection.

9. The creatures of the night.

  Most cats consider Christmas trees to be their personal playground, refusing to acknowledge stern warnings from you that unappreciated feline merriment could result in a severe adjustment of treat privileges and continued living. Your furry children may pretend to behave whilst you are in the vicinity, but they will immediately launch at the tree the second your footsteps seem to be fading away. For a cat, there are just too many sparkly and dangly things for them to ignore.

  Nighttime is the worst. Things crash loudly and bizarre events take place. You may wake in the morning to find that the Baby Jesus is missing from the manger scene, replaced by a small ransom note with the imprint of a cat paw.

10. You will not be fully appreciated for your efforts.

  Once you finally have the tree in order, covered in scratches and dripping sweat, don’t expect a round of applause. Your older children might find the strength to utter “cool” while they continue texting with someone named Boner. Younger children will immediately race to the tree and destroy three of the most delicate and memory-filled ornaments, not understanding that this isn’t what they are supposed to do. (“But Mommy, you made me beat on that pinata for my birthday. Isn’t this the same thing?”)

  And your significant other? Well, as is written somewhere, if you put up the tree, then your spouse is most likely a Grumpy Christmas Person. (Rarely do two Happy Christmas People end up in couples, because that would be too much Hyperactive Yuletide Perkiness in one room for anyone to bear.) So don’t be surprised if your partner doesn’t even notice that there is now a dead tree where there wasn’t one just a few hours ago.

  But it doesn’t matter. The tree is up and all is good. Now go find that brandied eggnog so you can be prepared when the news comes about the abduction of the Baby Jesus….

Searching For Signal: #165 - “Big Brother” - Season 12, Episode 25

Editor’s Note: As mentioned with the previous “Big Brother” post, there have been some DVR issues at the house. The following review is actually for last Thursday night’s episode, so there’s obviously been a delay. Luckily, the recording of tonight’s episode was successful, so I should be back on track by morning. Bear with me…

We start off with the standard review of the last few episodes. We have Hayden in the Diary Room babbling that “Public Enemy Number One is now Ragan!” (Seriously, public enemy? You need to branch out with your movie-watching, Hayden.) Another shot of Lane doing that weird thing with his tongue when he carried out the giant nomination wheel. (Who the hell was he looking at when he did it? THAT’S the burning question.) And yet another glimpse of Ragan throwing the CD that bounced off both the singing clam and Enzo’s head. (Still love that.)

The Announcer Guy has a teaser: “We finally get to see the jury house!” (About time.) “And the jury house explodes when Matt reveals his lie!” (Yay! Been waiting for that!)

Cut to Julie with the live studio audience. Shockingly, we see that someone has stolen parts of her dress, right at the shoulders. Poor thing. Anyway, she’s in one of her manic moods, frothing with delight at her revelations. “Will the Brigade lose their second member? Will the Brigade continue to fracture?”

Then we have another showing of Lane replacing Veto-winner Enzo with Hayden, which leads to Diary Room confessions.

Hayden: “That’s not cool, dude.” (Then a bald eagle flies out of his hair and three cameramen are killed.)

Britney: All my subtle breast-flopping with Lane paid off!

Lane: “I couldn’t risk sending Britney home. I want her in the Final Two.” (Then he hears Britney reaching for something on an upper shelf in the kitchen, and he races out of the Diary Room.)

Enzo: “The plan is for Ragan to go, so that’s who is going home.” (Then he does his weird trademark thing of look off to the left, even though we know nobody is standing there.)

Ragan: “I’m not gonna roll over and cry!” (Oh, I’m sorry, he said “die”, not cry. My bad.)

Hayden, Enzo and Lane sitting around. Hayden: “One of us is going to get the money!” Their eyes collectively sparkle with greed and subliminal all-male celebration. Lane in the Diary Room: I still want Britney beside me at the end. “Britney has more enemies in the Jury House than any Brigade member.” (Not really sure about that. Especially, since Matty is now over there, most likely spilling tea.)

Ragan goes to Britney. “Can we have a conversation?” (Ragan in the Diary Room: There are only two votes this time. I’m trying to get hers.) Ragan to Britney: How do you get to the end? What’s the best path. Then he spells it out, that Britney can’t win with the other guys beside her, she only has a chance if it’s Ragan. (Britney in the Diary Room: Ragan has some good points. Judging by what we’re seeing in Britney’s skimpy bathing suit top, so does she.) Britney to Ragan: I’d advise you to go talk to Lane. Now.

Ragan and Lane. Ragan: “Are you here to give away $500K? If you’re up against either of those boys, you lose. The jury always asks what your big move was. This is the week where you can answer that. It’s the move that nobody expects.”

Ragan is very persuasive, especially because he’s being completely honest. Trouble is, he’s talking to Lane, who was not blessed with the ability to think clearly or tie his own shoes. (Lane in the Diary Room: “It’s time for some tough decisions.” Translation: I have to think, and I didn’t go to that school.)

Back to Julie, with the caterwauling live studio audience. We’re about to get our first look at the Jury House! Matt reveals his lie! How will they react! (Um, I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.)

Boring commercials.

Jules talks to the House Guests. How’d you like those three punishments? (Ragan thought they were pretty swell, especially the dancing, because he feels good when he dances. So he’s going to tap-dance his way out of the house?) Julie to Enzo: The penguin suit. Discuss. Enzo: “I did give the penguin some swagger.” (If, by that, you mean groping yourself at every opportunity, yes, you did.) Julie to Britney: Worst thing about living with just men? Britney: They dirty and nasty! (Brit, have you never met a straight man before? I mean, I know you’re engaged and everything, but you might want to check his references.)

Julie: It’s time to go to the Jury House!

So we first see shots of Rachel, relaxing and enjoying her quiet time, floating in the fancy pool without need of a raft, because she’s got Jupiter and Saturn keeping her afloat. Then Kathy shows up, and the two drag queens hug. (They show us shots of Rachel and Kathy bonding, which mainly consist of Kathy looking terrified that Rachel’s loud braying might kill her.)

Then Matt walks in, and everybody has to pretend that they are excited about this. They watch the DVD that Matt has brought, showing the latest exploits in the house. They continued to pretend that they are excited about this. Finally, Brendon walks in, and Rachel is clearly disappointed, instead of rushing into his loving arms. “I wanted you to win! You should still be there!” Rachel gets around to remembering that she’s supposed to support her partner, and allows Brendon to hug her. He does so with a beatific expression indicating that he has just wrapped his arms around the Madonna. Poor guy.

Cut to Julie in the studio. “Matt’s about to reveal his secret!” (Okay, shut up, girl. Just play the video.)

Back to the Jury House. Matt: “I have another surprise.” My sickly wife? She’s not really. Hee hee. Brendon: “You are going to hell.” Kathy, livid: “There ARE sick people out there. And I’m one of them.” (Which sounds a little odd, but remember, Kathy has been fighting cancer for years.) She stomps off. Rachel: “You are the most horrible person I’ve ever met.”

Didn’t go so well, did it, Matt?

Matt follows Kathy and tries to console her. She wants nothing to do with him. “Have you ever lost someone?” When Matt tries to save himself by saying that he was planning on donating some of his prize money to the disease (that basically doesn’t exist) Kathy, Rachel and Brendon lose it again. Me thinks that Matty is going to be spending a lot of time in his room.

Once again back to Julie in the studio, where she is talking to Lane in the HOH Room.

Julie: “Are you worried about fallout from The Brigade?” Lane: “I trust them 100%. But I couldn’t take the chance that they would send Britney home.” (Which means that you DON’T trust them, Lane. Do you have access to a dictionary?) Julie: “Are you trying to appear less smart than you really are?” Lane: His incoherent babbling thusly proves that, no, there’s no strategy with this. He’s just stupid.

Julie once more, trying to make herself heard over that one woman in the audience who always seems to be there, the one who wails like a fire engine over every single thing that happens. (WHY do they keep asking her back? Is she related to some big shot at CBS? Oh wait, that would be Julie.)

She goes back to the House Guests, huddled in the Couch Room. Time for the Save Me speeches. Ragan: He talks about his dad that passed away, and the importance of family. And that if he has to leave, he’s really excited about making cookies for everyone in the Jury House. Hmmm. First part good, second part, not so. Hayden: I’m just happy to be here. I’m not going to say anything bad about Ragan. But he has plenty of pointless things to say about everything else, rambling on for decades.

We finally get to The Vote.

Not surprisingly, but still a little disappointingly, Enzo and Britney vote for Ragan to leave. He’s going home.

Not that it appears to bother him too much. He seems very excited with what’s about to happen. “I get to meet Julie Chen!” Then he races out the door, pirouetting and such.

Exit interview.

Julie: “You made a compelling argument for keeping you in the last few days. What went wrong?” (Translation: Why are these people such idiots?) Ragan: “That group of four is closer knit. But it was a big mistake on their part.” Julie: “Why didn’t you act on your Brigade suspicions?” (Translation: Dumb-ass, you had your chance and you blew it.) Ragan: Matty wanted to keep them. And I think Matt is a wonderful, genuine, real person. (Translation: I wanted to have his baby, and I wasn’t paying attention.)

In the “goodbye” videos, Enzo actually has the nerve to ask Ragan to vote for him in the end. Figures. Jersey Boys, right? I shafted you but love me anyway.

Time for the HOH Competition.

It’s a Christmas theme. The players have to stand on one side of chicken wire, and then manipulate ornaments on the other side up the chicken wire and place them on a tree. First to fully decorate their tree wins. There are 18 ornaments and a star. We know right away that we are not going to see a winner during the course of this episode.

Britney manages to drop her first three ornaments right away, while quaint Christmas music plays in the background, so her suckage is immediately evident. The cameras do show Enzo and Hayden doing their thing, but there’s a constant distraction of shattered ornament glass from in front of Britney’s area.

We cut to commercial, because Britney’s performance is so sad.

We come back to Julie: “Next Wednesday is a special Eviction Episode!” Oh?

And we end with more shots of the Yuletide festivities in the courtyard. Britney is busting things left and right, Enzo is doing a little better, (I know, right?), and Hayden is in the lead…

Roll end credits.