We had to run to the mall to get the poorly shod Younger Child some new tennis shoes. We pulled into Northlake and even my astigmatic and tri-focaled eyes could see the enormous blue Christmas tree glowing in the distance.
Blue’s not bad for a Christmas tree.
But it’s November.
“They forgot all about the Pilgrims,” my kid sadly noted.
Rodney Dangerfield and Dick Cheney get more respect than Thanksgiving. Halloween closes shop and as soon as the door shuts, The Eagles start whining for you to come home. (ASIDE – Don Henley could ask me anything he wanted.)
But stop rushing me into Christmas. Just. Stop.
We were in the CVS on November 1 – NOVEMBER – heading for a bag of marked-down Three Musketeers minis, but then we looked around.
We saw red, blue, gold, multicolored tinsel, boxes of balls, gift-box tags, angel tree toppers, glittery wrapping paper for Hanukkah and Christmas, Santa snow globes, twinkling lights, ornament hooks and stockings: stockings with fur, stockings without fur, stockings with tinsel, stockings with initials, stockings with tinsel and fur and initials, for folks like me who lean toward the trashy side.
Shouldn’t they have had something that says “Thanksgiving?” Turkey napkins? Cornucopias? Pilgrim plates? Gobblegobblegobble decorations?
“You can’t switch from Feliz Navidad!”
The Wild Child yelled this at me in the car last week. Oh no? Watch me.
I don’t want to hear “White Christmas” in our typically blustery November. The thought makes me itch. And can somebody tell those boozed-up miscreants singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” to put the rum down already? It ain’t that cold, and honey, if you’re falling for this lame line, you have issues besides the weather. Besides, he spiked your drink. You should leave now.
Yes, this is the South. There’s not even any snow at our ski resorts. We could be at the lifts in Speedos, slicked down with Hawaiian Tropic and drinking margaritas, which would be fine by me. It was 75 yesterday. This could happen. Maybe it would be different if we lived in, say, Saskatoon.
I love December. Love the generous, warm spirit that should be around for the previous 11 months and dissipates in January. Love the glitzy houses, and the tackier the better: Santa and baby Jesus and Rudolph on the roof, Frosty in the yard, the menorah on the porch, the Kwanzaa candles on the mailbox, Mary and Joseph and the animals chillin’ smack in the middle of the driveway. We adore the homes with the blinking, twinkling multicolored lights and no theme besides “tacky – you wanna fight about it?” I relish the way we can hear, almost feel, the Christmas quiet descend. Wrap up in a blanket on Christmas Eve, sit on your porch swing and listen to the citycalm down.
But I love all of this after Thanksgiving.
Can a sistah get some giblet gravy?
The Pilgrims made it with a bunch of folks who had every right to 1)knock ‘em upside the head for trespassing and 2)let them starve. Unlike many people who came to the New World, the Pilgrims made that trip for a greater good. The Pilgrims didn’t have turkey, but they had food, and they had shelter. These days, like then, having food and a safe home are cause for celebration. Recession, anybody?
The pioneering folks who sought their own religious freedoms so you can worship, not worship, whatever, deserve a lot more respect across the board.
Let us have November, please. Let’s not rush Christmas. Life goes too quickly, anyway. Slow down and celebrate the present.
Let a sistah get some turkey in her belly.
By the way: We spotted Santa at the mall. He looked hot, cranky and itchy. Must be heat rash.