A Very Sixty Christmas.

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Last week I decided to get a Christmas tree. I walked over  to the pop-up tree-lot  a couple blocks from my house and bought a small one fresh off the truck. I suppose this is the urban equivalent of going into the woods and chopping it yourself. I carried the scraggly  fir home and set it up smack in the middle of my living room. It looks okay and smells pretty good. Out of some wistful effort to keep it natural  I made the mistake of omitting  lights. My husband typically  never notices this sort of thing. He noticed.

“It seems a bit glum,” he commiserated.

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I made a batch of gluten-free Christmas cookies. They look okay and are holding together just fine but they taste awful! I should compost them. Indeed I  would, except I’m too Scottish to let all that butter, sugar, and effort go anywhere except my waist.

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I play Christmas music as much as possible. So much so, I wake to lyric memes from Eartha Kitt’s coy and seductive ~Santa Baby~ “So hurry down the chimney tonight…so hurry down…hurry down…hurry.” and wonder; do I need less coffee and more sex or less sex and more coffee?

And, I’ve been watching Holiday movies on Netflix streaming. Go ahead and snicker – this genre deserves it. Sexy Santa? Unbelievable.  Bad Santa Billy Bob Thorton–good grief. True, I’m a sap for Chevy Chase and his Christmas Vacation, though it was Switchblade Sisters  I stayed up late for last night. It has nothing to do with the season. Watch it anyway. You’ll love it. If it doesn’t fill you with joy nothing will.

Even with all this, I wonder: am I feeling my sixtieth season deeply enough?

Am I dazzled (enough) by my neighbor’s display of LED lights. Lights so bright and surreal  I feel like I’m living inside my iPad? Am I experiencing (enough) rocking-good-times with the  revel-makers; enjoying latkes,  chocolates, smoked WillieBirds, and friends raising up the wassail cup?  Did I stand in line (long enough) at the North Berkeley post-office three different times in the same week mailing off packages destined for as faraway as the Swiss Alps — grooving on the scene?

The answer is YES!

Yes! to nostalgia, yes! to the deck covered in holly, yes, yes, yes! to hope and cheer and charitable giving. I’m dreaming of a soggy Christmas. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain. I’m weeping in adoration over everything from yuletide carolers to fake snowballs and silent holy nights. Even my dog growling at the giant, blow-up reindeer down the road had me dabbing my eyes. That vinyl monster with a glowing red nose scared the wits out of Phat-boy. How adorable is that?

And too, I’m laughing all the way. Listening for sleigh bells. Being naughty and nice. Rushing home with treasures. I’m going to wrap up my gifts with gobs of ribbons and bows, hang mistletoe over the bed and leave some of these nasty gluten-free, cutout cookies out for Santa — or whomever.

I’m going to be blogging jolly…fa la la. Why not? I’m sixty, for Saint Nick’s sake!

So hark my words, Harold Angel and dear Reader. “Have yourself whatever kind of holiday you want.  Allow all the tinsel dripping sentiments of the season to be yours. Think inside the box.”

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What could be in there?

The Author

Quintessential Berkeley Homemaker

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