Disclaimer: Due to the revelation that Santa Claus is not a real person, please keep this article and all matches out of the hands of small children.

Christmas. A time for giving joy and sharing with each other. Ever been on the parking lot of the mall in the month of December? Let’s just say it would give me great joy to share the bumper of my car with someone’s rear end sometimes. Driving around the lot looking for a parking spot is like a road trip with no pretty scenery. I drive 80 miles over a five-hour stretch for the privilege of parking 18 blocks from the nearest entrance.

After testing the limits of my patience in the parking lot, it’s not exactly a zen moment once I’m inside the store. Why do so many last-minute shoppers have to be there when I’m trying to do my last-minute shopping? There’s not really enough room for everyone when all of those extra tables keep sprouting up everywhere. One would think that putting display tables in the middle of a store aisle would violate a few fire codes. Another safety issue would be those women who want to spritz me with something. By safety, I mean theirs, not mine -- if you get my drift.

Have you ever bought something so heavy, you had to shove it all the way to your car with your foot? I did that very thing the year I bought my dad a 40’s-style vintage record player. Apparently, there aren’t any store bags sturdy enough to hold 60 pounds. After all of that effort, ask me how many times my dad has listened to an old record. I guess buying him a CD player was a bad move.

Buying presents is only half the battle. Once you drag them home, you still have to wrap everything. Finding just the right paper is key. With all of the wonderful choices available, what are some people thinking? Sometimes for fun, I like to play “count the number of packages that look like my grandma’s couch”. However, something I try to avoid altogether are the brightly striped packages that cause strobe patterns out of the corner of my eye. This makes me feel like I’m stuck in the middle of a Jefferson Airplane video; not very Christmasy.

What good are presents without something to put them under? Setting up the tree really starts to make it feel like Christmas. The big question here is whether you want real or fake. I say fake it, but that’s just me. I have an incredibly sound reason for making this choice though. I’m lazy. Once I put up a tree, I want something pretty to look at -- not something I have to keep alive. If my dog could talk, she’d tell you how often she finds herself standing in front of an empty water dish.

No matter what type of tree you have, the best thing about it is what you hang on it. Nothing beats dusting off your personal collection of ornaments. Tucked away among all of the pretty, store-bought pieces are the special, homemade ones. I’m especially fond of the MTV logo I made back in ‘83. This really brings back the memories; not so much of Christmas, but of a time when MTV actually played music. It brings a tear to my eye just thinking about it.

See how many of you share this one: Red construction paper cut into an appropriate Christmas shape, green yarn tied in a loop through the top, Merry Christmas Mom & Dad scrawled in crayon and a photo of yourself -- missing a tooth -- glued into the center. How about that for a warm memory? Why is it that all second-grade girls wear horizontally striped turtle necks in their school pictures? Again with the strobe patterns.

Once the presents are wrapped and the tree is trimmed, now it’s time for a trip to the grocery store. As with any holiday, Christmas brings with it all sorts of seasonal foods; fruit cake chief among them. As near as I can figure, this holiday treat is a mixture of foods that will never be used in any other way, for any other purpose during the rest of the year. I had one sent off to the FBI lab in Quantico for testing. It turns out, it’s Gummy Bears held together with super glue and coated with polyurethane. I give mine to small children because they’re colorful and shiny.

Another seasonal favorite is eggnog; also known as cholesterol in a cup. Of course, egg white nog would be gross. Out of curiosity, I wondered what nog might be, so I Googled it one day. It has something to do with heavy beer. Egg yolks and heavy beer. Apparently, vomiting was a big tradition during early Christmas celebrations. No wonder Pepto-Bismal® is such a festive color.

Whatever your personal traditions are, there’s one thing we can’t get enough of during the holidays; Santa Claus. He’s everywhere. It seems to me that this would make it hard to keep the fantasy alive in your children. If Santa is one, magical person who circles the globe in one night, then who’s that guy at the mall? We celebrate the birth of Jesus during Christmas, but you don’t see our Lord greeting people at Wal-Mart®.

My friend, Linda, had a very philosophical approach to Santa. Told never to talk to strangers, she could not be enticed by a store Santa to sit on his lap. When he told her he might not bring her presents if she didn’t, she told him that was okay because her dad would buy her presents. What a wonderful parallel universe to live in. She knew Santa brought her presents. Yet, somehow she knew dad was responsible in some strange way as well. I doubt she was devastated when she discovered the truth. No Santa? No problem, as long as dad has a Visa® with a good credit limit.

While we’re on the subject of Santa, I have a startling confession to make that may shock my growing legion of fans. You see, I never believed in Santa Claus. I always knew that the man behind the beard was my Uncle Norman. It’s true. But don’t ask me why. Ask my parents. And while you’re at it, ask them why I wasn’t allowed to have a puppy.

Of course, it all worked out in the end. I was spared the trauma of realizing I had been duped my whole life. I wish I would’ve fared as well with everything else. Did you know that wrestling is fake? Oh well. In the end, the fun is in the fantasy.

P.S. Just so you know, this year I’m asking for a growing legion of fans for Christmas.

Back to Top

© Beth Wiesemann. No portion of this article may be reproduced without the author's permission.