It wouldn’t be Christmas without a Turkey. No, not the country; the bird whose instinctive and erratic actions seem better thought out than those of a certain president we could name. (Do turkeys tweet? Does anyone but a turkey tweet?)
Since I haven’t had my Christmas turkey dinner yet, I’m not quite ready to declare the season officially over and strip my tree of its gay apparel.
I drove through whiteout conditions Christmas afternoon, belly rumbling, salivating at the imagined scent of stuffing. But as the squalls failed to subside I realized my options were to stuff myself or to stand a reasonable chance of returning home that evening. So with uncharacteristic caution I drove away, agonizing minutes before dinner was to begin. All I got was a mouth-watering sniff.
And safe home it was, the only casualty a few white knuckles.
But could there anything more pathetic than a man, alone, shivering over a bowl of Mr. Noodles to a sound track of Mel Torme and Barbra Streisand and the Muppets? And later trying desperately to warm chestnuts over an open fire?
Still, I suspect there’s a fowl with my name on it, probably marked down to the price of its timorous cousins, in a grocer’s bin. And I’m tempted to cook one as if there are still presents to unwrap and nogs to be egged.
Perhaps I’ll serve it, like despair, with a side dish of Mr. Noodles.
I have this nice bush tree that I put up
a couple of weeks ago and strung lights on about a week ago. But for various reasons — too busy, too lazy — I have yet to decorate it. And it’s Christmas Eve day. So I’m telling myself that it’s a family tradition not to decorate the tree until Christmas Eve. Fake Tradition. But it’s probably less farfetched than claiming I’m Ukrainian.
UPDATE: Decorated it this afternoon, so I guess we’re back to admitting I left everything to the last minute instead of claiming that I follow the Eastern Orthodox liturgical calendar. Happy Christmas all, or happy whatever you celebrate. If you’re Ukrainian, please put this message in the refridgerator and take it out again January 7.
(Excerpts from my column in December 19 Sault Star)
This year has been such a disaster in terms of male morality that I half expect to read that Santa has been named in someone’s #MeToo tweet.
It’s not that I suspect the jolly old elf of sexual improprieties, but face it, he’s in a vulnerable position from a public relations point of view.
Santa has had more underaged females on his lap than Alabama’s failed senatorial candidate Judge Roy Moore ever did.
Santa obviously is in a position of power. Don’t do what he tells you and he’ll put you on the “naughty list.”
. . . read the full column here