Short Story (12/25/2009): Christmas Nerves

Christmas was standing menacingly over my raw nerves with a meat tenderizer. It drew back its bejingled arm and struck.

I watched the mall Santa sneeze twice right into his gloved hand before he welcomed an anxious (and unsuspecting) toddler onto his disease-riddled lap. My own toddler and I left the Santa line...after waiting for nearly two hours. He cried through three department stores. I explained the danger of germs and disease - and I emphasized the importance of sanitation and hand-washing. He explained (through a series of sobs and screams and enraged arm-twitches) the danger of crossing the will of a 2-year old.

Seeing my nerves not quite tender enough, Christmas prepared another wallop.

My step-mother put way too many onions in the broccoli salad. The recipe calls for "some diced onions" - not as many full onions as there are broccoli florets. If someone wanted onion salad, they would move to a small eastern European village where no one cared about taste or bad breath.

This one really hurt:

I had bought these really cute Converse sneakers for my twin nephews. They had been admiring a similar pair that I had been wearing. I was so excited to see them open my gift. But...on a whim, a whimsical family member of mine, whimsically decided to let the kids open a gift at the very whimsical moment that I whimsically needed to make an emergency trip to bathroom. I can't control when Nature calls - nor can I screen her calls. I missed one of the Christmas moments that I'd planned and hoped for. Thank you, Christmas whimsy.

Christmas Wallop #4

I was listening to some amazing choral Christmas carols while I was washing dishes. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir was singing "Angels We Have Heard on High," and the fortissimo on the "gloria" part was coming threateningly close to making me merry. My sister-in-law waltzed into the kitchen and said, "Ugh...let's listen to something a little more Christmasy." And - right before the final fortissimo refrain, she managed to save the day by finding a slinky saxophone version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

I really thought I'd had enough tenderizing. I guess Christmas disagreed: it pulled out the Meat Tenderizer 2.0, or as experts on such things refer to it, "The Meat Obliterator."

I settled in the TV room with my kids, my brother's kids, my cousin, and my wife. We decided to watch Miracle on 34th Street together. Most of the kids hadn't seen it, so we adults were excited about sharing this tradition with them. After the hot chocolate was served and the popcorn was popped, right as the movie was beginning, the rest of the clan, who had been doing some late Christmas shopping, burst into the room. Despite their chatter, they insisted that we didn't have to pause our DVD; but they chattered and chattered and talked and talked and stood right in front of the TV screen for interminable periods of time. Every time I attempted to pause the tradition (to be resumed at a more convenient Yuletide moment), someone would issue a hollow apology, say they were getting out of the way, and continue to chatter, talk, and impede the viewing. THEN, someone asked what we were watching. And when my wife informed him it was Miracle on 34th Street, he told us that they had a modern remake of the film on DVD upstairs. And upon retrieving the new DVD and ejecting the old, worthless, original film from the player, he eagerly reassured us that this was much better than the original - because it was in color!

Christmas then added insult to Meat Obliterator-induced injury, by letting it rain all day Christmas Eve - with temperatures at 39-degrees. So close to beautiful snow; but so amazingly far away.

Then it added a few more jolly wallops:

I aggravated a back injury while trying to help my dad get presents out of the closet to wrap.

No one enjoyed my favorite board-game (Balderdash), so we played a no-holds-barred game of Jenga instead.

My sister's new boyfriend Tyler was the most annoying person with the most annoying voice ever. He sounded like what the offspring of Gilbert Gottfried and Marge Simpson's sister might sound like - if you force-fed him helium-inflated balloons, popped them seconds later by jamming a darning needle into his esophagus, and enrolled him in an online horse-training degree program.

Instead of receiving the Flight of the Conchords box set that I had requested, my wife bought me an old Disney film called The Flight of the Navigator. Then she labeled it "From your loving kids," so I couldn't blame her.

Spaghetti? For Christmas dinner?

My uncle Jeff is a self-indulgent, self-important, know-it-all. He can't be wrong or sorry about anything he's ever done - including the $106,000 of debt he has incurred making sure he appears cutting-edge, or interesting, or smart, or whatever he's striving for...

Who cut my brother's hair before his vacation? His twin three-year-olds? One operating a paper-cutter while the other one trimmed with a sharpened tortilla chip?

It was almost sickening how much horrifying junk food some people in my family eat! They mechanically graze on fudge, peanut brittle, peppermint bark, or anything remotely sweet within grasping distance. I think my sister once ate a soggy half-brownie that had fallen from my toddler's high-chair tray!

It would have been an ideal time to have a run-in with a homeless veteran, a single parent, a starving child in a third-world country, or even an insightful stranger in an elevator. Someone was supposed to remind me of the true, selfless meaning of Christmas to infuse mirth to my holiday and remedy my mangled nerves.

In fact, my situation might have even warranted a word from the Almighty!

But my reminder came, in fact, from an unexpected and unwanted source: my sister's new boyfriend, Tyler. He called me something terrible and unrepeatable.

My sister volunteered him to drive with me to the airport to pick up my youngest brother Alex. I guess we needed some alone time to form an everlasting, brother-in-law-to-be bond. The first few moments of the trip (from the garage to the end of the driveway) went very well: Tyler didn't open his mouth once. Then he opened it for a matter of moments...and we drove all the way to the airport in the complete silent wake that followed the words he spoke. He said:

"Dave, in the short time that I've known you, I can't help but realize that you are a complete [something terrible and unrepeatable]. I can't believe you treat your wife and family like you do. You're always rolling your eyes and making that self-righteous "hmmph" noise when things don't go like you want them to. You think people don't notice that? What's great is: they do...and they put up with your [something terrible and unrepeatable with the rhetorical suffix "-ness"] anyways. Because miraculously, they love you for who you are. And you condescendingly sneer at their inferior taste or their lack of dignified respect for traditions.

"I only relate my observation because I'm going to break up with your sister in a few weeks and I don't care what you think of me - as a person or a potential in-law. You aren't self-aware. You think you are; and that makes you think you're better than people. You're a fool. And you need to change."

Then Tyler paused and seemed to stare at me for entire minutes. I never had once taken my eyes off the road.

"It's good advice," he said. "Take it or leave it."

Then he turned the radio on. Christmas music. Saxophone. "Silver Bells." Very jazzy and inappropriate.

I didn't talk to anyone about my "conversation" with Tyler. But it played in my mind for days. Naturally, he's right about everything.

I've set about mending my wayward ways:

I've made my "hmmph" noises almost inaudible. I refrain from rolling my eyes, and, if the eye-rolling is a must, I just pretending I'm checking ceiling fans for dust on a whim.

I've let my guard down against what I classify as "non-traditional" holiday activities, like horse-related conversations around the fire or Mediterranean cuisine at Anglo-Saxon feast settings.

I've almost learned to tamp down that gag reflex when I run across a cache of unwelcome onions in a salad (still working on the involuntary swearing).

I now carry hand-sanitizer in a miniature bottle on my key chain.

I watched that Navigator movie and really enjoyed it. I graciously thanked my kids...but not my wife.

I posted a very official looking edict on the wall of the TV room that outlines my feelings on Christmas movie remakes. People can still watch them: but they will be doing it in willful violation of my edict. The edict states that there is no official punishment, but I will be entitled to "hmmph" loudly and make tasteless jokes about the actors.

My doctor diagnosed me with IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome). I don't know how this directly relates to my Christmas Bowel Syndrome (...or Irritable Christmas Syndrome, whichever makes more sense), except for the part where I missed seeing my nephews open my gift, but I will eternally blame it for everything. Ever. Including my upcoming mid-life crisis.

And...I downloaded some Kenny G and Josh Groban onto my iPod. I still hate it, but listening to it helps me understand the minds of less advanced holiday celebrators.

Come on, Christmas 2010! Hit me with your best shot!