SYMBOLS AND STUPIDITY

DISCLAIMER:  These holidays are poked fun at from the strictly NON-RELIGIOUS standpoint.


 With the fast approach of Easter, and mulling over what to write for the blog update this week, I thought about some of the ridiculously inappropriate symbols we have for such holidays and how they relate, or not, to the ways in which we celebrate them.

Let’s start with Easter.  A rabbit and a basket of dyed eggs.  Makes no sense.  If we're discussing purely secular symbols of rising from the dead, then wouldn’t a zombie be a better?  And shouldn’t children be hunting for resuscitators in cemeteries rather than eggs on manicured lawns?  The traditional Easter dinner is ham or leg of lamb, but in keeping with the theme of “return” wouldn’t a big plate of beans be a better choice?  You’ll certainly hear from them again after you eat them.  And though the Easter lily is the traditional flower, Johnny Jump-Ups would certainly be more appropriate.

Moving right along—Mother’s Day.  This is quite the holiday.  If you’re smart, you’re considerate of your mother all year round, but if not, the calendar forces you to pay tribute to her on this day…and God help you if you don’t.  You will buy her flowers.  You will buy her jewelry. You will take her out to dinner.  But no matter what you do, whether you’re 24 or 64, during dessert she is sure to say, “I still wish you’d married that nice girl you went to high school with.”   And when you reply that you broke up with her because her highest goal in life was to get a job at Mustang Ranch in Nevada, her inevitable comment will be, “At least I’d have some grandchildren.”  The Mother’s Day symbol should be an embroidered sampler that reads, “I told you so” and a child waving a white flag.

Next, Memorial Day—a day of remembrance American war dead.  The symbology here is already the most appropriate of the lot.  People get together with the family for a barbecue.  Dead things are eaten, then remembered later when they go to war in our intestines.  And when the family gets together, what do you have?  Battles.  Oh, yeah, we’re good with Memorial Day.

Father’s Day—a consolation prize so that Dad won’t feel left out.  The symbols for this day should be an amusing coffee mug and a neck tie.

July 4^th—celebrates our adoption of the Declaration of Independence and our break with Great Britain.  Rather than fireworks, I think the symbol for Independence Day should be your lazy brother-in-law getting up off his fat butt and finding a job…preferably in England.

Labor Day—This is a celebration of the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of America.  If your brother-in-law hasn’t found a job yet, this is the perfect reason not to invite him over for the barbecue.  The symbol here should be the boss taking back the Labor Day holiday pay by cutting hours the following week.

Halloween—an evening of dressing in a costume and going door to door, carrying empty bags or pillowcases, begging for candy.  If the homeowner doesn’t give the reveler a treat, then a “trick” is played, usually some sort of mild vandalism.  I believe that this is how the Mafia got started.  A carved pumpkin is the symbol, though originally, it was a turnip that was carved.  It was changed to a pumpkin because nobody could bear the stench of a burning turnip.  A better symbol would be an insulin-filled syringe with the Hershey’s logo on the plunger.

Thanksgiving—a day when we get together with the family and give thanks for what we have, followed by a colossal pig-out.  Of course, with the family there, nobody’s happy about anything for too long unless some forward-thinking family member has the presence of mind to stuff the turkey with Prozac…lots of Prozac.  The symbol for this holiday is the turkey and the cornucopia.  It should be a bloated man on a couch, with his pants unzipped, half asleep, watching a football game.  

Christmas—We have many symbols for this holiday: Santa Claus, the Christmas Tree, the nativity scene, jingle bells, a star, twinkly lights, gifts, stockings, snow and snowmen, sleighs, reindeer, angels, and on and on.  This plethora of reminders of the season is hardly necessary, especially since Wal-Mart and establishments of that ilk have all the Christmas decorations on display the day after Halloween and holiday music blaring throughout the stores.  By the time Christmas arrives, we are actually sick to death of “peace on earth, good will to men,” and will vomit upon hearing the first seven notes of any Christmas carol you’d care to name.  A better symbol for Christmas would be an empty wallet and a full cash register.  Or a father holding up a necktie.

New Year’s Eve—Though the actual holiday is New Year’s Day, the celebration occurs the night before.  Streamers, confetti, and noise-makers are the symbols here, along with glasses of champagne.  They are nice thoughts, but more a accurate depiction would be someone throwing up in the back seat of a taxi, an empty Jim Beam bottle, and an ice bag.  Oh, and cars wrapped around telephone poles—let’s not forget those.

Valentine’s Day—another “participate or die” day.  Symbols here are a dozen red roses, chocolates in a heart-shaped box, expensive jewelry, dining out, and hearts in general.  Better symbols would be a guy with a gun to his head or a dozen roses bearing a price tag of $250.00 with the previous price of $30 crossed out.

St. Patrick’s Day—See New Year’s Eve, but in green.

 

 

 

.

CHRISTMAS, BOURBON, AND FRANKENSTEIN

        Christmastime, for me, has always been a time of reflection—remembering those who are no longer with us and wishing we could forget those who still are.  I happened to be shuffling through some photos the other day and was reminded of the Christmas I am about to relate to you.  So grab some hot mulled cider and a plain doughnut, and join me on yet another sleigh ride through Yuletide Hell…

         Last year, I decided to do a “themed” holiday.  It was to be “An Old Fashioned Christmas” in the Buckingham Household, right out of Currier & Ives.
         As a survivor of that same Christmas, I’m here to tell you that it was more like something out of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.  Picture Norman Rockwell beating up a small child, and you’ve got the idea.

To start with, I managed to wheedle the entire neighborhood into participating in a carol sing throughout the town.  I secured participants by promising them that I wouldn’t give them any of my Christmas cookies that year.

At any rate, at the appointed hour on December 23, we all assembled.  That crew of singers made the cast of M*A*S*H look positively normal.  I had the route all planned, and so led the way on the half-mile stroll to the first house to be the beneficiary of our jolly vocalizations.

I should mention here that though I have received death threats from most of the great chefs in the country, I actually can sing.  Our first number was “O Little Town of Bethlehem” into which I launched, con brio, expecting everyone else to jump in.

Nobody did.

I got as far as “Oh little town of …” and stopped.

“Well, come on!  Sing!” I cried.

“I can’t sing worth a damn, Carson,” old Corduroy Jenkins said.

This sentiment was echoed by most of the crowd, except for the ones at the back who, by this time, were so gassed on the bottle of bourbon that Alvin had brought along to keep warm that they were ready to sing anything, as long as it was “Little Brown Jug.”

Being the thorough planner that I am, I had forgotten to mention that at least a passing interest in singing would be necessary for our little adventure.

So, after five notes, that bit of Christmas magic was abandoned and everybody went home.  However, even a setback like this left me with the shining visions of Rogers & Hammerstein dancing in my head undimmed.  I trudged home to help decorate the tree.  The “perfect” tree.

After I cleaned up the wood chips, put away the chain saw, and disposed of the now useless tree stand, my children were headed for the basement to get the ornaments and lights when…

“No, no!  No lights.  No ornaments.  This year we’re having real candles on the tree.  We’ll decorate it with strings of popcorn and cranberries. This is going to be an old fashioned Christmas!” I cried.

My husband, Stij, growled something about an Old Fashioned sounding pretty good to him right about then—but he humored me.

I had purchased a thousand tiny white candles with their accompanying tree fixtures.  The tree, being two and a half feet tall, only accommodated about 75 candles; which was fortunate since, by the time we lit them all, the first ones were still burning…for a minute or two.

We went through the whole thousand in the first 90 minutes, which ended with a hasty call to the fire department.

Luckily, all that happened was that the tree burned to a crisp, the wall was scorched, Stij’s eyebrows were singed off, and I finally got that sunken living room I always wanted.

After the firemen left, following a stern warning to my husband about keeping the matches locked up, my son asked, “Where’s Tango?”

Tango is the cat—a Burmese stray who adopted us five years ago.

“The last time I saw him he was sleeping under the Christmas tree, and …OH NO!”

Resembling and outtake from a Keystone Kops short, we scoured the house in complete panic.  We finally found him hiding under the stairs…or what we thought was him.  I was hard to tell under a two-pound layer of built up candle wax.  He looked more like a miniature, extremely pissed off Jabba the Hutt.

The typical wax removal regimen involves pouring boiling water over the coated object—obviously not an option in this case, unless one finds the prospect of holiday evisceration appealing.

Stij took one look at poor little Tango, then turned to me and said, “Well, dear, we can stick a wick in him and drape him over what’s left of the tree in what’s left of our house, if you want.”

Before I could reply, I got THE LOOK, and kept my mouth shut.  It was the first smart thing I’d done all season.

Upon assessing the damage, I was really surprised he didn’t just skip THE LOOK and go straight for THE REMINGTON.

Instead, he left the room and came back with a pair of hair clippers.

Our family Christmas photo from last year, rather than framed and on the mantle, resides in a dusty album filled with photos of the relatives no one likes.  This is completely understandable.  This piece of Christmas nostalgia depicts two frightened children; a glowering father with no eyebrows; a charred, undecorated Christmas stick; a mother gagged with a book of Christmas carols and bound to a smoldering chair with strings of popcorn, cranberries, and boughs of holly, and a now vicious bald cat sitting on her lap with his teeth sunk to the gums into her right arm.

Fa la la la la, la la la la.

 

BLACK FRIDAY

           It’s here.

If you’re smart, you’ll lock all your doors and windows, draw your shades and spend the day watching the scariest horror movies you can find—and compared to Black Friday, they will ALL be comedies, believe me.

I made the mistake of venturing forth this morning.

First stop, Rockler.  For the uninitiated, this is a store filled with woodworking tools.  There were a few things Stij had on his list that I knew I could get there, since he had folded the pages at the corners and subtlely circled each item he wanted in day-glo orange marker.  I’d found the catalog under my pillow.

Once I located a parking spot one town away, I trekked to the door.  There was, I kid you not, a maroon velvet rope of the type one sees at movie theaters and exclusive clubs, strung across the entrance.  There was also a rather burly fellow standing next to it with his massive arms crossed.  To see what he looks like, just go to the AMERICA’S MOST WANTED website—he’s the third one from the left.

“Hello, my good sir,” I said.

He turned a gimlet eye toward me. One was all he had.  The other was covered by a black patch with the catchy slogan, ‘Die, You Bastard!’ embroidered across it. “Whaddya want?”

“Merely to enter this esteemed establishment,” I replied.  I go all ‘finishing school’ like that when I’m in total fear for my life.  I figure if they can’t understand me, they won’t kill me…at least not right away.  Plus, while they’re busy mulling over what I’ve said, I have time to get away.

I could hear the gears in his head, the lubricant of actual thought absent, moving like a tricycle left out in the rain for a month or two. After a long moment, he looked down at me again.

“Wha?”

“I’d like to go into this store.”

“What’s your number?”

“I’m flattered, but I’m married.”

“No, lady.  You gotta have a number to get in.”

“And where do I get this number?”

He pointed inside the store to one of those deli gadgets that spits out pieces of paper with numbers on it.

“How can I get a number if you won’t let me in the store?”

He had to think about that one for a while, too.  The smell of burning wood drew the fire department.

Finally, in a remarkable stroke of logical reasoning that would have Aristotle shrieking in his grave for weeks to come, he said, “You gotta have a number.”

“Fine.”  I yanked my cell phone and the catalog from my handbag and keyed in the store number.

“H’lo?”

I sighed.  “Hello.  Is this Duffy’s Mortuary?   Where the elite meet to spend huge wads of cash?”

“Uh, no.  This is Rockler.”

“Oh, what a relief.  I’d like to do a little shopping there, if it hasn’t been outlawed.”

“Sure, come on down.”

“I am down.  Look out your front window.”  He turned and I waved.

“Oh, hi.” He waved back.

The relationship did not seem be to progressing.

“May I come in?”

“Sure.  You got your number?”

“How am I supposed to have a number if you won’t let me in the door to get one?”

“Oh, you were supposed to stop by and do that last week.  Dincha see the flyer?”

“So what you’re telling me is, because I actually have a life and do not spend my dwindling moments on this planet poring through the bale of ads I receive each week, that I can’t shop at your store today?”

“That’s right, ma’am.”

“How about if I call the police?  This can’t be legal!”

“If they don’t have a number, they’re not getting in, either.”

“This is outrageous!  I will never shop at your store again.”

“And we’ll do our best to explain the drop in the stock prices to our shareholders, ma’am.”

If I ever wanted to slam down a receiver, it was then, but cell phones rob us of that olde-tyme pleasure.  The only option I had was to crush it underfoot, but then I’d have to buy a new one, and God only knew what I’d have to go through to get into the phone store.

From Rockler, I drove to straight to Barnes & Noble and had no problem whatsoever getting in.  I was welcomed at the door and given a sandwich and a latte.  It was peaceful, since I was the only shopper in the place. While I browsed, unhurried, the sounds of crickets and peepers accompanied me.  Others can go to WalMart and fight over Elmo or televisions the size of Montana.  Others can go to Rockler and have an aneurysm in front of the store.  I was among friends now. When my pile of books was totted up and paid for, the cashier rushed to the door to open it for me and said, “God bless you and keep you for coming in today.”

Stij is getting a pile of books for Christmas.  Though they won’t help him in the shop, they will save him big on bail money.

Currier & Ives, May You Rot in Hell! (PART TWO)

(You may want to read Part One of this post first, entitled, “Cursing Up the Christmas Tree” that I wrote for my good friend Nishi Serrano, as a guest blogger.   Part Two will be much funnier if you read Part One first.  Here’s the link:   http://www.nishiserrano.blogspot.com     

See you in a few minutes.  I’ll leave the porch light on.

Christmas time for me has always been a time of reflection—remembering those who are no longer with us, wishing we could forget those who still are.  I happened to be shuffling through some photos the other day and was reminded of the Christmas I am about to relate to you.  So grab some hot mulled cider and a plain doughnut, and join me on yet another sleigh ride through Yuletide Hell…

Last year, I decided to do a “themed” holiday.  It was to be “An Old Fashioned Christmas” in the Buckingham Household, right out of Currier & Ives.

As a survivor of that same Christmas, I’m here to tell you that it was more like something out of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.  Picture Norman Rockwell beating up a small child, and you’ve got the idea.

To start with, I managed to wheedle the entire neighborhood into participating in a carol sing throughout the town.  I secured participants by promising them that I wouldn’t give them any of my Christmas cookies that year.

At any rate, at the appointed hour on December 23, we all assembled.  That crew of singers made the cast of M*A*S*H look positively normal.  I had the route all planned, and so led the way on the half-mile stroll to the first house to be the beneficiary of our jolly vocalizations.

I should mention here that though I have received death threats form most of the great chefs in the country, I actually can sing.  Our first number was “O Little Town of Bethlehem” into which I launched, con brio, expecting everyone else to jump in.

Nobody did.

I got as far as “Oh little town of …” and stopped/

“Well, come on!  Sing!” I cried.

“I can’t sing worth a damn, Carson,” old Corduroy Jenkins said.

This sentiment was echoed by most of the crowd, except for the ones at the back who, by this time, were so gassed on the bottle of bourbon that Alvin had brought along to keep warm that they were ready to sing anything, as long as it was “Little Brown Jug.”

Being the thorough planner that I am, I had forgotten to mention that at least a passing interest in singing would be necessary for our little adventure.

So, after five notes, that bit of Christmas magic was abandoned and everybody went home.  However, even a setback like this left me with my shining visions of Rogers & Hammerstein dancing in my head undimmed.  I trudged home to help decorate the tree.  The “perfect” tree.

After I cleaned up the wood chips, put away the chain saw, and disposed of the now useless tree stand, my children were headed for the basement to get the ornaments and lights when…

“Oh, no!  No lights.  No ornaments.  This year we’re having real candles on the tree.  We’ll decorate it with strings of popcorn and cranberries. This is going to be an old fashioned Christmas!” I cried.

My husband, Stij, growled something about an Old Fashioned sounding pretty good to him right about then—but they humored me.

I had purchased a thousand tiny white candles with their accompanying tree fixtures.  The tree, being two and a half feet tall, only accommodated about 75 candles; which was fortunate since, by the time we lit them all, the first ones were still burning…for a minute or two.

We went through the whole thousand in the first 90 minutes, which ended with a hasty call to the fire department.

Luckily, all that happened was that the tree burned to a crisp, the wall was scorched, Stij’s eyebrows were singed off, and I finally got that sunken living room I had always wanted.

After the firemen left, following a stern warning to my husband about keeping the matches locked up, my son asked, “Where’s Tango?”

Tango is the cat—a Burmese stray who adopted us five years ago.

“The last time I saw her she was sleeping under the Christmas tree, and …OH NO!”

Resembling and outtake from a Keystone Kops short, we scoured the house in complete panic.  We finally found her hiding under the stairs…or what we thought was her.  I was hard to tell under a two-pound layer of built up candle wax.  She looked more like a miniature, extremely pissed off Jabba the Hutt.

The typical wax removal regimen involves pouring boiling water over the coated object—obviously not an option in this case, unless one finds the prospect of holiday evisceration appealing.

Stij took one look at poor little Tango, then turned to me and said, “Well, Carson, we can stick a wick in her and drape her over what’s left of the tree in what’s left of our house, if you want.”

Before I could reply, I got THE LOOK, and kept my mouth shut.  It was the first smart thing I’d done all season.

Upon assessing the damage, I was really surprised he didn’t just skip THE LOOK and go straight for THE REMINGTON.

Instead, he left the room and came back with a pair of hair clippers.

Our family Christmas photo from last year, rather than framed and on the mantle, resides in a dusty album filled with photos of the relatives no one likes.  This is completely understandable.  This piece of Christmas nostalgia depicts two frightened children; a glowering father with no eyebrows; a charred, undecorated Christmas stick; a mother bound to a smoldering chair with strings of popcorn, cranberries, and boughs of holly, and gagged with a book of Christmas carols; and a now vicious bald cat.

Fa la la la la, la la la la.