With the yuletide
clock ticking down on this holiday season, I need a timeout. A man can hear only so many versions of
“Santa Baby” sung in a half-toddler, half-boozy harlot voice before he
questions his worth as a human. And I’ll
put up with the tedious debate about “Christmas” versus “Holidays” for only so
long before I give in and remove my nine-foot inflatable Old Saint Nick lawn
decoration out of deference to those Santa agnostics in the neighborhood. I’ll replace him with “Slappy Nick,” the
non-denominational five-inch garden gnome in a red tunic who appears to be on
cholesterol medication and may have had some sherry with lunch. And I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’m confident wassailing is legal but sounds
inappropriate, as in, “Dude, I had some eggnog and wassailed all over her front
porch. In a top hat!”
But nothing causes me more angst
during the holiday season than Christmas cards.
They come in wave after wave, crashing into my mailbox with the force of
stale fruitcake shards hurled by striking elves. The cards start arriving in late November and
continue through early January, adorned with smiling faces, cats drinking tea,
and families at play. Messages of “Joy
and Happiness,” “Merry and Bright,” and “Peace and Hope,” abound. But as I look past the leaping children,
wedding shots and well-groomed pets, I see only evidence of a tradition that
needs mending.
First, there’s the “Former Friend,”
the most popular Christmas card, and the worst offender of holiday form over
function, delivered by the dozens unsigned.
If my address serves as proof that we’re friends, then I’m also best
buds with the Yoga Nation catalogue
publisher and my local payday loan proprietor.
No note? Not a word? At least a stranger like Rayleene!! from The
Longhorn gives me a heartfelt, “Thanks!!”
No “Hey guys! Great karate party
last summer! Have a swell holiday!” or
even the delusion but sweet, “2013’s definitely the Mets’ year!” Apparently the decades of chats, shared
secrets and experiences, and common bonds of friendship have sapped you of all
strength to scrawl a single phrase.
Merry Christmas to you too, Mr. Potter.
How about the “One Percenter”
card? These float to my home on the
wings of partridges in envelopes crafted from select papyrus reeds and unicorn
fibers. The photo invariably depicts a
grinning family in its natural habitat, either on the beaches of St. Tropez or
the slopes of Hinterglemm, in matching outfits of denim and white shirts or
escutcheon-adorned unitard ski suits.
But this audience would just as soon skip penning a note as they would
skip the gardener’s tip, so these smiling senders offer tiny clues of caring,
often a single red line slashed through the printed greeting, a wry hint that
yes, they do wish me a Merry Christmas, and they mean it! “The O’Sheas are
dear to us, Lovey, so be a crumpet and add a red pen mark through our name as
proof of our enduring friendship. Now
back to the slopes!”
But few things capture and kill the
holiday spirit like the “Dear Everyone” card-letter combo, that two-page
rambling essay hand-written in haste, mailed two weeks after the tree’s been
tossed to the curb and the Tyco Racing Set’s already been broken and discarded
under the divan, right where little Freddy left it on Boxing Day. These annual family manifestos run the gamut
from celebratory, (“The Reform School Reunion was a success!”) to explanatory
(“Sadly, the tattoo artist’s fee was better than his spelling . . . “), and
from cautionary (“As Cousin Polecat can confirm, chili cook-offs and screwtop
wine are not a good match . . .”) to hopeful (“And Whitman, our Princeton
graduate, has moved on from Occupy Wall Street into Occupy Basement without a
hitch. Job search starts in January!“).
So for the
remainder of this holiday season, I refuse to listen to another bloated
Groban/Bolton/Bublé
interpretation of “What Child is This?” or open one
more Christmas card until someone sends me one with feeling. Until then, I’ll be with Slappy Nick and
Rayleene!! on my front lawn, wassailing my woes away.
