Buying the Perfect Christmas
The holidays are coming, the holidays are coming! Actually, they've been coming for a month, now, and are as yet to be glimpsed through the fog and mists of December days that still separate us from them. But, if one turns on the television or goes anywhere near a store or two, one would think Christmas is tomorrow, and we still haven't done anything about it.
Because, of course, one must buy presents. For everyone. You are such an absolute cheapskate if you don't buy something for the mailman, who hasn't stopped by in over a year now that you do everything online. Or for that cousin five times removed you happened to bump into yesterday for the first time in ten years. And if you don't buy anything special for your sister's furry companion you are the lowest of the low. Your tree (because, of course, you've already put up the tree; how could you not?) by now should be surrounded by at least a hundred little packages all expertly wrapped in the most expensive wrapping paper (you wouldn't be so cheap as to wrap them in those seventy-five cent rolls, would you?).
As for your tree, you did buy another one this year, right? A large plastic fir tree that looks and smells as if you put on your lumberjack shirt, took your trusty ax, and went into the woods, where you chopped it down all by yourself, and then dragged it home without losing one single needle or accumulating the humus of the forest floor. And you chose the one with embedded lights, to boot. It doesn't matter that you left half your month's salary on it, with those special glass balls that will be handed down to the next generation. Though you will decide next year that they're too much out of style to hand down, and will renovate the entire box of tree decorations.
Of course, the house needs to look like a corner of a department store, with every single surface occupied with at least five angels, three glass balls, five strings of tinsel, and six lit candles, as well as two strings of blinking lights. By the time you're finished, the neighbors will probably call the police and the fire departments to denouce the fire hazard.
You can't leave out the dinner table. On Christmas Eve you have to call everyone you have known and talked to within the last ten years to come eat at your house. It doesn't matter that no more than six people fit comfortably in your small dining room. The table has to be so decorated there's no room for the hundred and fifty platters of scrumptious food you've been cooking for three days. And your wardrobe has to be the newest and the best, the sexiest, the slinkiest, and the kitchiest with the inevitable Christmas sweater covering it all up. Because you did buy a Christmas sweater, of course. Or two. It can get cold in late December.
None of the presents you've bought are cheaper than twenty euros. The stars under the tree are the technological ones, which are the majority. You must have bought at least ten home assistants, so that whenever those who receive it mention the names, Alexa, Siri, or Kiwi, they will remember you. There also has to be a drone or two, for those nephews and small cousins to embroil their parents in privacy suits. You also must emphatically have a few smartwatches and fitness trackers scattered amongst the packages. Because everyone who receives a Fitbit knows the real name is Fatbutt and they will absolutely appreciate your intentions.
So, as you make sure you are acquiring everything you must have for Christmas, don't look at the calendar; you might get a schock. There are only sixteen days till Christmas to prepare for the best Christmas ever. The best, at least, according to the television, the department stores, and your neighbor with whom you have a running feud over who does the best Christmas. And don't worry, according to the loan sharks that legally advertise on TV, you can pay for it in comfortable installments for the rest of your life. Or, lives, if you do this every year.
Because, of course, one must buy presents. For everyone. You are such an absolute cheapskate if you don't buy something for the mailman, who hasn't stopped by in over a year now that you do everything online. Or for that cousin five times removed you happened to bump into yesterday for the first time in ten years. And if you don't buy anything special for your sister's furry companion you are the lowest of the low. Your tree (because, of course, you've already put up the tree; how could you not?) by now should be surrounded by at least a hundred little packages all expertly wrapped in the most expensive wrapping paper (you wouldn't be so cheap as to wrap them in those seventy-five cent rolls, would you?).
As for your tree, you did buy another one this year, right? A large plastic fir tree that looks and smells as if you put on your lumberjack shirt, took your trusty ax, and went into the woods, where you chopped it down all by yourself, and then dragged it home without losing one single needle or accumulating the humus of the forest floor. And you chose the one with embedded lights, to boot. It doesn't matter that you left half your month's salary on it, with those special glass balls that will be handed down to the next generation. Though you will decide next year that they're too much out of style to hand down, and will renovate the entire box of tree decorations.
Of course, the house needs to look like a corner of a department store, with every single surface occupied with at least five angels, three glass balls, five strings of tinsel, and six lit candles, as well as two strings of blinking lights. By the time you're finished, the neighbors will probably call the police and the fire departments to denouce the fire hazard.
You can't leave out the dinner table. On Christmas Eve you have to call everyone you have known and talked to within the last ten years to come eat at your house. It doesn't matter that no more than six people fit comfortably in your small dining room. The table has to be so decorated there's no room for the hundred and fifty platters of scrumptious food you've been cooking for three days. And your wardrobe has to be the newest and the best, the sexiest, the slinkiest, and the kitchiest with the inevitable Christmas sweater covering it all up. Because you did buy a Christmas sweater, of course. Or two. It can get cold in late December.
None of the presents you've bought are cheaper than twenty euros. The stars under the tree are the technological ones, which are the majority. You must have bought at least ten home assistants, so that whenever those who receive it mention the names, Alexa, Siri, or Kiwi, they will remember you. There also has to be a drone or two, for those nephews and small cousins to embroil their parents in privacy suits. You also must emphatically have a few smartwatches and fitness trackers scattered amongst the packages. Because everyone who receives a Fitbit knows the real name is Fatbutt and they will absolutely appreciate your intentions.
So, as you make sure you are acquiring everything you must have for Christmas, don't look at the calendar; you might get a schock. There are only sixteen days till Christmas to prepare for the best Christmas ever. The best, at least, according to the television, the department stores, and your neighbor with whom you have a running feud over who does the best Christmas. And don't worry, according to the loan sharks that legally advertise on TV, you can pay for it in comfortable installments for the rest of your life. Or, lives, if you do this every year.
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