Deck the Halls
Sunday, November 26, 2006
For most normal people, we’re currently at the beginning of the Christmas season. I’m normal nowadays, I think – I’ve purchased a couple of presents online and put some thought into who’s getting what this year. I don’t have a tree yet, I don’t have stockings up. We’ll probably do all of that in two weeks.
When I was a kid, however, I wasn’t at all normal. I was completely queer for Christmas. I’m sure a bunch of you are reading this and thinking, “no shit, what kid wasn’t retarded for Christmas?” But I don’t think you understand how bat-shit insane I was for Christmas.
Let’s start with the decorations, shall we?
Most kids don’t give a shit about Christmas decorations – all they care about is the list for Santa, sitting on his lap to seal the deal, and Christmas morning. That’s it. But for me – the decorations represented what was to come. All of my favorite characters dressed up for the holidays – Superman with a Santa hat, Elmer Fudd hunting in the snow, Spiderman with a sack of presents. It was all of the characters I lived with everyday except they were fighting crime of kiwing wabbits, fuck that, they were getting presents. And, as a kid, that shit was exciting.
Because of this excitement I’d start bothering my father to bring the Christmas decorations up from the basement in September. The start of school was the beginning of the Christmas season for me. My dad would bring them up – they were stored in this Peanuts’ pinball machine box – and I’d go through all of them. I’d see which ones were broken and fix them up after crying for about ten minutes. Our porcelain superman ornament would have a broken body part every year – gluing it back together would become a family event. We had this hollowed out egg with a picture of Santa painted on it; every year I’d take it out of the box and expecting it to be broken. It remained intact for most of my childhood – it finally broke when I was around sixteen; I dropped it.
My favorite decoration was this clay ice skater with my name on it that my Grandma Fran made for me. It was always the first ornament we hung on the tree on the highest branch. That worked out well for the first eleven years, until my sister was born, and she got jealous over all of the pomp and circumstance around my decoration.
So I already had the decorations out. The day after Thanksgiving, for me, was all about getting that tree and I’d harass my pops until he took me to get one.
Another tradition in my family was getting a “Charlie Brown” tree. We (and by “we” I mean me and my mom) purposely looked for the ugliest tree imaginable, the one that no-one would want to buy. Again, this tradition went smoothly until my sister was born. I’ll never forget the year we went Christmas tree shopping and decided on a tree with a big-ass bald spot on the backside. My mother and I fell in love. My sister cried all the way home.
The following year I was off in college when the family went tree shopping. My father and my sister teamed up and purchased a nice, full tree. This time my mom was supposedly crying all the way home.
My father would always set up the tree the night he brought it home. I wasn’t allowed to decorate it, though. According to my father the tree had to have time to “open up” before you were allowed to decorate it. Years later Robin and I would buy our first tree together (keep in mind I was 22 at the time). We took it home and set it up. Robin starts to decorate it and I stop her, telling her we’re supposed to let it “open up” over night. She tells me I’m crazy so I call up my dad to confirm. My dad tells me, “No, I just told you that because I wanted to have a beer and watch some football, instead.”
I then realized that the tree always seemed to “open up” about three hours before Monday Night Football started.
My dad would put on the lights and I’d hang most of the decorations (some were reserved for my mom). I’d put the star on the tree; we actually have a picture of me putting the star on the tree from every year, wearing the same ratty-ass Santa hat. Stockings and other decorations would go up – the Frosty the Snowman candle that I partially ate when I was one, the plastic Rudolf that would go in the window, and, of course, this mechanical minx in a Santa outfit that always went in my room. She wasn’t an elf, she wasn’t Mrs. Clause – she was like Santa’s jailbait niece and I had one hell of a crush on her. The movie Mannequin only made the situation worse. I’d lay in bed and stare at that girl as she shook her little ass and I’d pray to Santa saying, “Santa – listen, I know I said I wanted a gameboy but if you can make that girl come to life I’ll be extra good next year. I promise.” I was 11 at the time, I knew Santa was “in our hearts,” but I’d still pray for that chick to come alive.
Never happened. Probably for the best, it’d make for a great “first time” story but I’d likely be locked up for telling it.
“But it was a Christmas Miracle, dammit! A Christmas Miracleeeeeee!!!!!”
As I got older I started decorating my own room as well. This consisted of throwing lights and fake icicles all over the place. Looked like shit. I continued that tradition in college. Looked like shit and distracted my pot smoking friends when we used my room for our smoking sessions.
“Duuuddee…you know what’d be sweet? If that mechanical chick came to life and totally fucked us!”
“Don’t go near her, dude, she’s mine. She’s been mind since I was, like, nine and shit. You don’t know us; don’t judge us!”
Robin and I just do a tree and stockings now. She tries to put costumes on our pets and they hate us for it. We put our presents out weeks in advance and by the time Christmas rolls around we have a good idea of what’s in every box (except for the year she surprised me with an X-box, that mother fucker was out for weeks and I had no idea what it was). No lights on the windows, no half-eaten candles. The mechanical floozy still stays in the bedroom but I’m not allowed to stare at it while we have sex.
When I was a kid, however, I wasn’t at all normal. I was completely queer for Christmas. I’m sure a bunch of you are reading this and thinking, “no shit, what kid wasn’t retarded for Christmas?” But I don’t think you understand how bat-shit insane I was for Christmas.
Let’s start with the decorations, shall we?
Most kids don’t give a shit about Christmas decorations – all they care about is the list for Santa, sitting on his lap to seal the deal, and Christmas morning. That’s it. But for me – the decorations represented what was to come. All of my favorite characters dressed up for the holidays – Superman with a Santa hat, Elmer Fudd hunting in the snow, Spiderman with a sack of presents. It was all of the characters I lived with everyday except they were fighting crime of kiwing wabbits, fuck that, they were getting presents. And, as a kid, that shit was exciting.
Because of this excitement I’d start bothering my father to bring the Christmas decorations up from the basement in September. The start of school was the beginning of the Christmas season for me. My dad would bring them up – they were stored in this Peanuts’ pinball machine box – and I’d go through all of them. I’d see which ones were broken and fix them up after crying for about ten minutes. Our porcelain superman ornament would have a broken body part every year – gluing it back together would become a family event. We had this hollowed out egg with a picture of Santa painted on it; every year I’d take it out of the box and expecting it to be broken. It remained intact for most of my childhood – it finally broke when I was around sixteen; I dropped it.
My favorite decoration was this clay ice skater with my name on it that my Grandma Fran made for me. It was always the first ornament we hung on the tree on the highest branch. That worked out well for the first eleven years, until my sister was born, and she got jealous over all of the pomp and circumstance around my decoration.
So I already had the decorations out. The day after Thanksgiving, for me, was all about getting that tree and I’d harass my pops until he took me to get one.
Another tradition in my family was getting a “Charlie Brown” tree. We (and by “we” I mean me and my mom) purposely looked for the ugliest tree imaginable, the one that no-one would want to buy. Again, this tradition went smoothly until my sister was born. I’ll never forget the year we went Christmas tree shopping and decided on a tree with a big-ass bald spot on the backside. My mother and I fell in love. My sister cried all the way home.
The following year I was off in college when the family went tree shopping. My father and my sister teamed up and purchased a nice, full tree. This time my mom was supposedly crying all the way home.
My father would always set up the tree the night he brought it home. I wasn’t allowed to decorate it, though. According to my father the tree had to have time to “open up” before you were allowed to decorate it. Years later Robin and I would buy our first tree together (keep in mind I was 22 at the time). We took it home and set it up. Robin starts to decorate it and I stop her, telling her we’re supposed to let it “open up” over night. She tells me I’m crazy so I call up my dad to confirm. My dad tells me, “No, I just told you that because I wanted to have a beer and watch some football, instead.”
I then realized that the tree always seemed to “open up” about three hours before Monday Night Football started.
My dad would put on the lights and I’d hang most of the decorations (some were reserved for my mom). I’d put the star on the tree; we actually have a picture of me putting the star on the tree from every year, wearing the same ratty-ass Santa hat. Stockings and other decorations would go up – the Frosty the Snowman candle that I partially ate when I was one, the plastic Rudolf that would go in the window, and, of course, this mechanical minx in a Santa outfit that always went in my room. She wasn’t an elf, she wasn’t Mrs. Clause – she was like Santa’s jailbait niece and I had one hell of a crush on her. The movie Mannequin only made the situation worse. I’d lay in bed and stare at that girl as she shook her little ass and I’d pray to Santa saying, “Santa – listen, I know I said I wanted a gameboy but if you can make that girl come to life I’ll be extra good next year. I promise.” I was 11 at the time, I knew Santa was “in our hearts,” but I’d still pray for that chick to come alive.
Never happened. Probably for the best, it’d make for a great “first time” story but I’d likely be locked up for telling it.
“But it was a Christmas Miracle, dammit! A Christmas Miracleeeeeee!!!!!”
As I got older I started decorating my own room as well. This consisted of throwing lights and fake icicles all over the place. Looked like shit. I continued that tradition in college. Looked like shit and distracted my pot smoking friends when we used my room for our smoking sessions.
“Duuuddee…you know what’d be sweet? If that mechanical chick came to life and totally fucked us!”
“Don’t go near her, dude, she’s mine. She’s been mind since I was, like, nine and shit. You don’t know us; don’t judge us!”
Robin and I just do a tree and stockings now. She tries to put costumes on our pets and they hate us for it. We put our presents out weeks in advance and by the time Christmas rolls around we have a good idea of what’s in every box (except for the year she surprised me with an X-box, that mother fucker was out for weeks and I had no idea what it was). No lights on the windows, no half-eaten candles. The mechanical floozy still stays in the bedroom but I’m not allowed to stare at it while we have sex.
posted by Jason at
9:57 PM
1 Comments
jason rodriguez is an eisner and harvey-nominated editor and writer. email him. or become his digital BFF below:
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