Back to the Mall

Now, really, doesn't Christmas always fall on Dec. 25th? Every calendar I ever owned marks that day with a big red number - "25." A person can't miss it and most people I know, especially children and mothers, watch as that number comes closer and closer. Before I know it, that number floats in front of my eyes like a distorted face when looking closely at a round ornament. I get sick of hearing the television and radio screaming out the countdown of the days left to shop. As soon as one Christmas ends, I begin paying close attention to the conversations between my family members, including the musings of the man who believes in Santa Claus. I consider myself to be a fairly good gift-giver and I honed that skill by listening for conversations that included the words, "I want," "I wish I had," "I saw this. . ." and other such spoken wishes. When my kids were young, before school even started, I got in the habit of scribbling lists in a notebook I keep in my nightstand, with each person's name at the top of each page. After I buy a gift, I star it and write a "w" next to each present after covering each gift in matching paper and ribbons. Oh yes, don't forget the gift tags. After all, whose heart doesn't flutter when they see their name on a gift and know that someone spent the time to buy something special for them and them alone. Well, most people receive gifts chosen especially for them. I would, of course, write "From Santa," on the kid's gift tags but really wanted to write "From Mrs. Claus." But that would disturb the innocent, little children because when we visited Santa's Workshop at the mall, my kids sat on the lap of a big, kindly but scary-looking man in a red suit. I could barely restrain myself from yelling out, "Santa's not a man and never has been, at least at our house." But I went along with the fantasy, at least until Christmas morning.

Knowing that Christmas always comes in December and one short month after Thanksgiving, why does my husband wait to shop for my gifts on December 23rd? We play the same game every year with him asking for my list and me believing that this could be the year for "the" gift, the one thing I don't write down but secretly hope he knows me well enough to buy. I consider myself relatively easy to buy for and my friends and my children don't seem to find it very difficult to ply me with surprises every year, even on my birthday and Mother's Day. But, inevitably, Christmas morning arrives and Mark eagerly hands me a gift to open, all the while stumbling over his words, i.e. "I know it's not what you wanted but they didn't have your size," or color or whatever reason the box didn't hold the coveted surprise gift. I don't know any other way to make shopping any easier for him than I already do. My list comes complete with item name, color, size and which store stocks said item. I mean, I shop every year and hardly leave my house. All the man needs to do is go online, find listed site and enter item number but he tells me that he doesn't know how to enter the debit or credit card number. REALLY? Then I realize that he is indeed telling the truth. Mark never activated his debit card because he claims not to know how to use the thing. Hahaha - I find that hilarious considering the man can take a computer apart and put it back together or disable an engine only to get the thing running again. I now know that it's probably best that he doesn't use a debit card because upon opening his bathroom drawer to look for something, I find receipts dating back several years. A debit card in his name could truly prove disastrous. He bought something once online and got scammed and that has now become his excuse for never shopping online again.

Needless to say, this year I made the old Christmas list again, making it very short because all I asked for was a screened-in porch. I mean, that's not asking too much, is it? We need to build a new deck so I figured we could screen it in at the same time. I did tell him he could skip the stocking tradition of the Russell Stover's marshmallow Santa because I plan on losing a few pounds and if the candy sits in front of me, I feel guilty if I don't partake. Imagine my surprise (ahem) when I took my stocking down from the mantel and tucked inside sat, not a marshmallow Santa but an entire box of Russell Stover's candy. Sabotage!!! I couldn't believe it but I went ahead and opened it to find the vanilla cream before anyone else could steal it. After all, I didn't want to seem ungrateful for what would probably turn out to be the best gift of the lot. To my surprise, my stocking held several things from the list - a Borders gift card, a tube of Lollia hand cream and a tube of Chicken Poop Lip Junk (don't knock it until you try it - best lip balm ever but don't ask me why the name). Mark then placed several gifts in my lap and the excitement on his face reminded me of our kids in their childhood when they came into the living room to see their presents under the tree. I remarked that he should probably lay off the coffee as he seemed quite jittery to me. I know now that it wasn't excitement as much as nerves. Upon opening the first gift, I spied the maker of some perfume on my list but alas, two boxes came together inside the plastic wrap, a ploy to make sure you spent extra money purchasing two to get one. Unfortunately, if I wanted to smell like a Granny Smith apple, I would just take a bite of one and let the juice run down my chin onto my clothes. Can a person tell if they will like the scent without taking off the plastic wrap? Of course not, so now I own two bottles of will-never-use-why-did-you-buy-this scent. Returnable? Not with the plastic wrap off the boxes. Just another holiday ploy. Of course, if Mark paid close attention to the list, I wrote the name of the desired perfume and it's maker, but "since he didn't have his glasses on at the time," he didn't realize he bought the wrong kind. Darn.

The next two boxes held two nice, gray sweaters, neither one the sweater I put on the list. But again, waiting until the 23rd ensures the shopper that the store will not have the size or color on the list and this lets the shopper off the hook. He can then purchase a wonderful, always useful, gift card but this time he did not. Mark asked his oldest daughter to finish the shopping and sadly for her, she bought two gray sweaters just to be on the safe side. Tiff knows what I like but this time she didn't know that I owned one sweater almost identical to one she purchased. I hated to tell her and her dad but the pockets on the side of the other sweater looked like two elephant ears that God mistakenly placed on my hips. I just couldn't bring myself to look like a zoo animal even if it would keep me warm.

Sadly, none of the boxes held a screened-in porch or even a miniature rendition of one but Mark did tell me he found someone to give us an estimate. As for those other gifts, my wallet holds cold, hard cash from the return of those sweaters. And the perfume, well, I decided I'd spritz it all over the kitchen so when I start my weight-loss program, Mark will think those vegan burgers and salad taste as good as green apple pie.

My Husband Still Believes in Santa Claus

My husband really does believe in Santa Claus. Every year Christmas rolled around like clockwork and I, in my desire to take my mother's place as the matriarch of Christmas, ran around in a frenzy, hitting all the pre-Christmas sales to find the dream gift on my children's lists. That's not to say that my kids didn't know why we celebrated this special holiday. The first thing we got out at Christmastime was an advent calendar and a special book called "Santa's Favorite Story." We always adopted a family for Christmas in our Sunday School class and I always included my kids in the shopping so they would realize that even though we couldn't afford extras, we were blessed more than many people. We would pick out an angel from the tree at the mall and drop toys in the "Toys for Tots" bin. That didn't keep them from wanting the newest toy or gadget or whatever the television shouted out as this year's "must-have toy." Christmas morning, the kids would open their gifts and Mark would usually whisper, "What'd we get them?" Silly man. There was no "we" in Christmas at our house. I, alone, brought the magic of Christmas to our house. That's not to say Mark didn't have an assignment. His job was to put the tree in the stand and string those pesky lights. That's usually when I sat down with a hot toddy because I wanted to watch the event from my safe place on the couch. I put in my earplugs, grabbed my book and tried to stay out of the way from cords flying around the room and evil-looking tools hanging off my husband's belt. He saw those as his toys but I knew those could become death objects in a matter of seconds and then the dreaded words came floating across the room - "Babe, I need some help over here." Ha! Help? As in "Are you going to make me hang these lights all by myself?" Well, of course not. He planned that from the moment he hauled up those boxes of lights from the basement. I would then stand close enough to the tree to get more than a few scratches on my arms while he threaded those lights through the branches. Before I knew it, I stood on the 10 foot ladder, reaching into spider webs that I'd never known existed up in the bowels of the ceiling. Mark stood calmly at the base of the now-unfriendly Balsam or Douglas fir and smiled knowingly as he'd comment on how easily those lights went up. He stood back after "he" completed the light-hanging and just smiled, patting himself on the back at a job well-done. Yep, he finished his Christmas preparations and he could now sit back and enjoy all the delicious cookies those little elves baked in the kitchen every night after everyone else went to bed. I would bet the elves he pictured wore short, red skirts with pretty, green low-cut sweaters and sexy, knee-high, red leather boots. Well, you can bet I imagined a different Santa than what he imagined and I would make sure that Santa left him a note in his stocking and that note would not wax poetic, that's for sure.

Of course, about a week after the hanging of the lights, Mark would come in from work and comment on the magically-decorated tree. "The tree looks great. Who did that?" Are you kidding me? Did he think that Santa and the elves lived in a secret place in our house? As far as I knew, only one person decorated that tree and she didn't live at the North Pole. After hanging those lights, Mark disappeared into his man cave, only to sneak into the kitchen occasionally to partake of those delicious Spritz and sugar cookies that the elves delivered overnight. I would hear his footsteps as he took the long way around so as not to catch my attention. Heaven forbid that he would stop and offer to carry the ornament boxes upstairs. He knew that for me to get them out of their hiding place, I would need to put on a suit of armor to avoid getting stabbed or wounded by the various tools and woodworking materials that he stacked in front of the Christmas decor. That's not to say Mark didn't offer to help. After I carried the eight or nine boxes into the living room, he would ask me, "Babe, why didn't you tell me you were getting the Christmas stuff out?" Hello. I believe I walked right by him with box after box as he busied himself with nailing something together to avoid eye contact with me. That way he could play innocent after I completed the decorating. I always enjoyed watching his face as we entertained and someone would comment on my ornament collections. Mark quickly entered the conversation with "Yeah, it's beautiful, isn't it? Don't the lights look great? It took me a couple of days to string those." Well, I feel quite sure that the look on my face silenced him after that comment because next thing I knew, he held a cup of coffee and some more of those elf-baked cookies. And I sat down next to him with a nice, hot toddy in the biggest mug I could find.

Merry Christmas! And to all you little elves out there, thanks for your help.

Grandma's Porch

Now, I love the holidays as much as the next person. As a child, I would come in the door after school in October and beg my mom to let me play a Christmas record. And yes Virginia, we called them records. I was a true Christmas junkie. I loved the lights, the tree, the entire magical scene. I fell for the Santa tale hook, line and sinker. When my mom pulled me into a closet to disclose the truth, I practically fell to my knees for a quick prayer of, "Oh, please don't let it be true." As much as I hated knowing the truth, I felt some pleasure in knowing that I could now hold a secret over my siblings' heads. Of course, my mother would hold something over my head if I ever breathed a word of "the secret" to my two brothers and my sister so I kept my mouth shut. But the real devastation came when I came home on Christmas break after my first semester of college and saw what stood in the place of our usual tree. I crept closer to check out what looked way too much like fake needles. I touched them and sniffed the tree, only to find no pine scent but an unmistakable scent of au-de-plastic. What in the world?! I couldn't believe my eyes. My mother did the unthinkable. She took away the thrill of the hunt, the cold, wintry nights and the first, burning sip of hot chocolate at the Christmas tree lot. Never mind that I couldn't really remember the last time I participated in the tree hunt since I'd come home for Christmas vacation during college to find that my mom decorated the house without me. I still got to help with the cookies and yes, that meant eating the dough and tasting the first cookies as they came out of the oven. Our Christmases came steeped in tradition; Christmas Eve dinners at our house, the late-night Christmas Eve service, opening one gift Christmas Eve, sitting at the top of the stairs Christmas morning waiting for my parents to turn on the tree lights, the Christmas music and the light in the nativity, shining on the baby Jesus. My mom did a great job surprising us with our gifts, down to the white go-go boots one year that I never dreamed I would receive, imagining myself dancing on Dick Clark's American Bandstand. Looking back, I couldn't help but wonder how she continued every year to bring newness to the season or did my youth just see it as new because I enjoyed the season so much? I knew one thing - finding the newness now escaped me and something must be done.


Nothing says Christmas like the smell of freshly baked Christmas cookies and the scent of the balsam or fir. Who doesn't get all aquiver with the prospect of trekking through the tree lot, toes frozen to your socks, nasal hairs dripping icicles and then the fun of tying the tree to the roof of the car, only to have it slide over the driver's side of the windshield on the way home? And the cookie press!! With all those little attachments that allow you to make cookies shaped like bells, bows and Christmas trees, a person can actually feel like Martha Stewart herself. Who can pass up the lure of powdered sugar, vanilla, pecans and pretty little sprinkles, much less the warm, happy feeling you get from spending this special family time in the kitchen?


Well, we can. Sharon and I sit on Grandma's Porch and don't see why we should put up with the work and mess of making Christmas cookies when a perfectly good Swiss bakery sits just down the road. The warm, happy feelings abound when we lift the lid of the bakery box to see beautiful, pink-iced Napoleons and chocolate-covered meringue balls. To keep up the spirit of Christmas, we can ask them to throw in some marzipan elves and bite those little elves' heads off as soon as we get into the car. We can't even say "Jolly Old St. Nick" before the nice lady boxes up our pastries and we scoot on out the door. Then we'll take our haul back to Grandma's Porch, put our feet up, play "Mele Kalimaka" on the CD player and sit back with full bellies and satisfied spirits. We might even come to life long enough to go into the kitchen and whip up a batch of Rice Krispie treats as a nod to home-baked Christmas goodies. We'll toss in a little #40 red food dye to make it more festive and eat 'em right out of the bowl. Why dirty an extra pan? We'll just butter up some spoons and have at it. It'll be a little slice of heaven. You're welcome to come by Grandma's Porch and we'll share . . .or maybe not. It all depends on whether or not we feel sated. At the very least, we'll let you scrape the bowl as long as you take it back in the kitchen and wash it when you finish with your tasting. After all, we all must do our part.

Merry Christmas from Grandma's Porch,
where the carols are playing, the wine is mulling and things are just fine.