Bitch, Bitch, Bitch, Bitch, Bitch, or, Happy Frickin Holidays

Oh stop, you all knew this was coming.

I made a tactical error last evening in my fight to keep my spirits, if not jolly, at least borderline civil this Holiday Season. There are some very sad things that I have come to associate with this time of the year, not the least of which (albeit the most recent) is the passing of my father on November 9, 2006. Every year is a struggle for me, from the day after Halloween until somewhere around Valentine’s Day, when Spring seems to once again be a possibility and daffodils start appearing at the flower shops.

It’s shitty, really, because when I was growing up, Christmas was the most wonderful holiday ever. And a big part of that was my dad; he absolutely adored Christmas, and regardless of what the family’s finances looked like in the recession-slammed 70′s, we had a HUGE Christmas, and it wasn’t just about the gifts. There was the trip to Zorn’s Poultry Farm in Bethpage on Christmas Eve to pick up the holiday turkey and trimmings (we never, EVER got a turkey from anywhere else, and the first time I encountered a frozen bird – in my 20′s – I was flummoxed as to what to do with it). Christmas Eve dinner consisted of Zorn’s fried chicken and barbecued ribs with sides of amazingly creamy cole slaw, mashed potatoes, gravy and biscuits.

Then the tree.

The tree was always fresh, and we usually picked it up the Sunday before Christmas. Daddy would stow it in the backyard til Christmas Eve, then drag it in (dirt and all with my mother yelling ineffectually and halfheartedly about her linoleum) through the kitchen, past the dining room to its rightful place of pride in the bay window in the living room. The smell of a pine tree brings tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat when I remember my childhood Christmases. Those huge old lights that used to get super hot (I got burned more than once) and would make the smell even more intense. Once the tree was decorated, we were shuffled up to bed. My sister and I would lie there eyeballing the clock, convincing ourselves that we heard jingle bells on the roof, until we finally lost the struggle and dozed off. We never woke later than 6, though, and my little brother was usually already waiting for us. We were always dazzled by the tree, all lit up with tinsel and ornaments, with piles of stuff underneath. The presents  – what was in the boxes and beneath the ribbons and bows – were not that important. It was the rituals that made it Christmas. And we were never permitted to forget why we were celebrating the day. We were Catholic, and Christmas is a religious holiday.  But unwrapping the gifts was awesome, too, the trying to decide which one to open first, trying to guess what it was…  I remember one year I got a diary with a key – that was the best gift that year, and it couldn’t have cost more than a couple of dollars.

The house was filled with the smells of fresh pine and turkey and gravy, the sounds of Christmas carols or whatever albums my sister and I had gotten that year, and we went to bed sleepy and happy and content that all was right with the world, at least for that night.

Looking at it down the corridor of years, it can’t have been easy for my parents some years to give us the gift of that illusion with smiles on their faces. There were years where things were REALLY tight; I know this now. I had no idea then. They somehow managed to pull off goodwill toward men and a feast of epic proportions, despite monetary hardships. We three never suffered deprivation at the holiday; I can only begin to imagine what my mom and dad sacrificed to give us those childhood memories.

It seems different now, and here’s where we come to my tactical error yesterday. My plan this year for gift giving was cunningly designed to keep me out of retail stores from Thanksgiving well into the new year. Broadway tickets for the short list of adults, online ordering well in advance for the kids’ items, and gift cards. Please, don’t think that by shopping like this I love you any less. It’s just that I have a zero tolerance policy for Christmas Douchebags in the stores this time of year. However, I spent yesterday at Chris’ parents house with him, putting their tree together and decorating it (his mom was in Baltimore and poor dad was surrounded by boxes of Christmas decorations). It was peaceful, I was with the man I love, and for a little while I even enjoyed going through the box of ancient ornaments made by Chris and his sisters long before they ever knew I existed on the same Island. We went to dinner afterwards, the twin lobster special at the new seafood restaurant. It was good. We had fun.

But…on the way home, Chris asked “Which do you think is cheaper for the Harry Potter DVD, Best Buy or Target?” An innocent enough query. “Best Buy,” said I, without batting an eye. (Sorry about that, I’ll stop now.) My response had nothing to do with saving $2 on a movie and everything to do with avoiding the hell of a big box store two weeks before Santa Claus comes to mug you and steal your wallet. What I should have said was, “Why don’t we rent it from Netflix and wait for the box set to come out to buy a copy?” But I was lulled by good cheer, lobster and a false sense of security. I had forgotten just how hideous the Electronics Giants are at this time of the year. The minute we entered, I knew I was doomed.

Some fat, harassed, spandex-wearing suburbanite walked directly into me. Shoved me. Then walked on as if she’d made no physical contact with my whatsoever. “Excuse you!” I mumbled. Nothing.  I stood near a wall and assessed my situation: The place was teeming with people who had that glazed look of someone who’s been on a five-day crack run. None of them seemed  aware that there were other human beings in the store. They were crashing into each other, mumbling, pushing, and moving on. I felt my chest constrict, my jaw clench and my left eye start to jump. I made my way over to the movies, saw the Potter flick, snatched it up and said “Here! Let’s go!” He wanted to browse. I wanted to escape. While I stood looking at the films on the shelves, people were depositing themselves between me and the shelf, sticking their elbows in my face to pick out a movie, without so much as an “Excuse me” or even “Get out of my way you asshole.” I headed toward the computers. Bad idea. I took a shopping cart to the lower back on my way in, and was immediately ready to murder any number of kids who had no compunction about jumping on the laptop I was looking at. I mean that – they moved right in front of me as if I were not there. When Chris decided he wanted to go look at flat screen TV’s, I knew I was in danger of turning into something he’d never seen me as – a shrieking, evil harpy. I just stood there and got cursed at and run into until he finally decided that we were never going to spend $18,000 on a television. I have never been so happy to leave a place in my life.

What the hell ever happened to “Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men?” Christmas shoppers are a vile breed, evil, mean-spirited and angry. They are not giving out of love or because they want to give – they have other, more sinister and far more disturbing reasons for choosing the gifts that they do. It has to do with wanting to be liked, wanting their children to think they’re  okay, and really, wanting their neighbors to think they’re doing better than they are. It’s as if people never really mature past 11th grade anymore, and they’ve never gotten past that childish need and craving for status and cool points. So they go to Best Buy and get the Wii and the Toshiba and the Beatles Rock Band guitar, hating the entire experience and taking it out on everyone around them.

Guess what dickhead? It’s not my fault you just spent your mortgage payment on shit your kid does not need and you cannot afford. It’s not my fault that you’re afraid your tween won’t like you if you don’t buy him or her the same mountain of crap that his or her friends are probably manipulating their terrorized parents into buying this year. It certainly isn’t my fault that you seem to have lost your backbone in the parking lot. So please, don’t slam your overladen shopping cart into my back on your way to the SUV that your neighbors so admire to pile in the electronics for your little monsters. Don’t push me. Don’t curse at me. I’m not the one you should be pissed at.

And one more thing – next year, please do your shopping online. You’re not fit for human company this time of year. And next time, I might not have someone with me to keep my Inner Harpy from punching you in the neck.

Merry Christmas everybody.