Ah, Christmas. It's the magical time of year when everyone's brain turns to mush. I like to call this phenomenon the "Christmas Brain."
Do you remember that old movie with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan? No, no. Not "You've Got Mail." The other one. Yeah...wait, no. Not "Sleepless in Seattle." I mean the OTHER one. "Joe VS. the Volcano." Yeah. That one. You don't remember it? Okay, well never mind then. I mean, the movie is awesome, although completely impossible to understand. But Tom Hanks' character (Joe) is diagnosed with an imaginary "disease" known as a "Brain Cloud." I am of the opinion that a "Brain Cloud," if it were in fact a real disease, would be a lot like the "Christmas Brain." Only Christmas Brain only takes place during the holidays, and the Christmas Brain isn't usually fatal...and also, no one has to jump into a volcano, although sometimes the Christmas Brain makes you want to do crazy, crazy things.
Christmas Brain is the reason why every single December, I trick myself into believing that I can successfully make 1000 cake truffles/chocolate covered pretzels/pieces of biscotti, etc. etc. in a single evening. After realizing that I can't make all that stuff and still keep my sanity, I choose to forfeit my sanity. This loss of sanity leads to an even greater case of Christmas Brain, which leads to all sorts of what I like to call Christmas Fails.
For instance, the preschool where I work is a Christian preschool. We're not allowed to discuss Santa Claus or any of the secular aspects of Christmas, and I completely agree with and support this rule. There's nothing wrong with flying reindeer, but a Christian preschool isn't the place for it. Anyway, the last day of preschool before the Christmas break, one of the other teachers brought in "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" for the kids to watch. I remember filtering the situation through my brain, as I often do when confronted with a situation that might be against the rules. I thought, "Rudolph. Flying Reindeer. Nothing against the rules there. It's Rudolph! Of course we're allowed to watch that." Now, if my brain were normal, and not a Christmas Brain, I would have come to a different conclusion. I would have thought, "Rudolph. Flying Reindeer. AND Santa Claus. We can't watch this here. Let's watch VeggieTales." Fortunately, the preschool director caught us just in time and made us turn it off--all the while looking at us like we were crazy. I think we all had the Christmas Brain...which led to an epic Christmas Fail.
I've noticed the Christmas Brain/Christmas Fails in a lot of people, but I think Walmart workers have it pretty bad. It's not their fault, bless them. Long hours, cranky customers, busy, busy, busy. It's easy to get upset with retail workers, but I think it's just a lot more fun to just laugh at them and move on. And when I'm laughing at them, I'm really laughing with them, because I've got the Christmas Brain, too.
I had one Walmart employee try to help me out by directing me to a "20 Items or Less Line." I figured she was telling me that one of the lines was open, so I left my spot in a reasonably short line and went to the checkout she indicated. Only the line she directed me to was significantly longer than the line I left. And by the time I realized the problem with her "help," I'd lost my place in the shorter line. So I stood there, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Otherwise, I might have been crying.
Speaking of crying, the Christmas Brain leads to a complete loss of emotional control during the holidays. I found myself in Target the other day, staring at the Christmas decorations on sale, and I started crying because I just love Christmas so much, and Christmas was almost over, and I just love Christmas so much, and I'm not ready for it to be over...and I just love Christmas so much. And I had a serious case of the Christmas Brain.
The great thing about the Christmas Brain is that it continues even after Christmas. I went into Walmart a few days after Christmas, trying to get a soda and some money on my gas card, so I could drive a few hundred miles from KY to NC. I instructed the lady to put $25 on my card, and handed her the soda so I could also pay for that...or so I thought. She scanned my card in order to put the $25 on it...or so I thought. She handed me my soda, my gift card, and a receipt, and I hadn't paid for anything...or so I thought.
It took me a few seconds to realize that she had used my gift card (which already had a few dollars on it) to pay for my soda. I said, "No, I wanted $25 put on my gift card." She looked at me for a few seconds, then smiled and said, "You know what we can do? We can put $25 on your card." Um....
I said, "Yes, that's what I'm asking you to do." She looked at me another few seconds, then said, "I know. I'll just put $25 on your card." I was tempted to grab my card out of her flustered fingers and run to another cash register with an employee who wasn't suffering as strongly from the Christmas Brain, but I decided to give her one more chance. She put the money on my card, handed me my soda, and said, "There. Now you have your $25 on your card, and you also have your soda," as if this were news to me or something. I just nodded, smiled, and made sure she gave me the proper receipts, just in case she still wasn't sure about the transaction that had just taken place.
It's things like the Christmas Brain that make me almost glad that this time only comes once a year. ...but then there's always the Valentine's Day Brain, the Easter Brain, the Halloween Brain, and the "I Just Feel Like Going Crazy for No Apparent Reason" Brain. All of them help make life more interesting.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
An Awkward Twelve Days of Christmas
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: A partridge in a pear tree.
Hmm. Okay, sweetheart. Thanks for the shrubbery. I do like pears. But...what's with the partridge? Is it supposed to be a pet, because I don't really like birds. They're messy...and I have to feed them. What do partridges eat anyway? I hope they eat pears, because otherwise this one is going to starve to death.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Two turtle doves.
Baby, I told you I don't like birds, but maybe I can make an exception for this new mutant half-breed. TURTLE doves? Are those like some kind of awesome birds that live down in the sewer, make friends with giant rats, love pizza, and practice ninja moves, all the while sporting colorful eye bandannas?
No?
Do they at least have shells? No? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Three French Hens.
Enough with the birds! And do they have to be French? I mean, I like what the French do with fries, but French style green beans are not cool. The French should leave my green beans alone. They should stay up on their castle walls, insult the Brittons, and throw cows at people.
Can I throw your three French hens back at you? Run away!
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Four Calling Birds.
Birds. Again. Really? Really. You're like the least creative true love in the world. I guess that serves me right for dating a guy who works in an aviary. But what am I supposed to do with these FOUR calling birds? I mean, if they're going to be making calls all the time, I'm going to have to get some kind of family plan with my mobile carrier just to accommodate them. Sure, I can feed the partridge the pears, but I doubt my calling birds are going to settle for anything less than an unlimited calling/texting/data plan. Then again, how do they text with their little birdie feet? Maybe I can just convince them to use the banana phone.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Five Gold Rings.
Ah! Now we're getting somewhere. I mean, at least you're not giving me birds anymore. To be honest, though, my love, I was kind of hoping that at least one of those five gold rings had a diamond attached to it, but apparently my true love is a commitment-phobe. And you like birds. A lot. Yep, you're a keeper. Well, I don't really wear a lot of rings, so I guess I'll be calling those cash-for-gold people so I can get some money towards bird seed.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Six Geese A-Laying.
Dude. We were making great progress here, and then you go back to birds. What in the world am I supposed to do with six geese? And these six geese are a-laying. A-freakin-laying. That means little baby geese, because I'm not really sure I want to eat a goose egg. Maybe I'll throw it at you along with the French hens.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Seven Swans A-Swimming.
Darling. Dear heart. Love of my life. Does it look like I have a swimming pool at my apartment, or were you expecting me to keep seven a-swimming swans in my bathtub? Do you know how much of a mess seven swans a-swimming would make in my bathtub? Do you think my neighbors want to hear the sounds of seven swans a-swimming in my bathtub? Stop buying me birds.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Eight Maids A-Milking:
Okay, so granted, I am a bit of a slob, but it's kind of a slap in the face to say that I need EIGHT maids. And what exactly are they supposed to be milking? All you've given me up to now is a bunch of scrap gold, a pear tree, and a plethora of useless birds. I mean, unless these turtle doves are some kind of wonderful mutant birds that have developed mammary glands, I'm pretty sure you can't milk a bird. If you're going to buy me milking maids, you should probably at least be considerate enough to buy me a cow or a goat or something that can actually be milked. But you know what, I really don't want a goat in my bathtub either.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Nine Ladies Dancing.
You know, you can keep them, because I'm pretty sure that you're going to need a new true love (or nine of them) in the near future...
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Ten Lords A-Leaping.
Leaping Lords! Just what I always wanted! Why are they leaping? Nobody knows! But maybe one of them is smart enough to realize that plants, birds, slave girls, and commitment-lacking cheap jewelry are not good gifts to give your true love...
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Eleven Pipers Piping.
I'm confused. Are they here to play annoyingly high music, smoke 'baccy, or are they here to fix the plumbing? If they're here for the plumbing, I'm not sure why there are so many of them...
...but then my bathtub did get pretty clogged with all the a-swimming swan feathers.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Twelve Drummers Drumming.
No, thanks! I just roasted up the three French hens, so I have plenty of drumsticks.
This is why I'm single.
Merry Christmas!
Hmm. Okay, sweetheart. Thanks for the shrubbery. I do like pears. But...what's with the partridge? Is it supposed to be a pet, because I don't really like birds. They're messy...and I have to feed them. What do partridges eat anyway? I hope they eat pears, because otherwise this one is going to starve to death.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Two turtle doves.
Baby, I told you I don't like birds, but maybe I can make an exception for this new mutant half-breed. TURTLE doves? Are those like some kind of awesome birds that live down in the sewer, make friends with giant rats, love pizza, and practice ninja moves, all the while sporting colorful eye bandannas?
No?
Do they at least have shells? No? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Three French Hens.
Enough with the birds! And do they have to be French? I mean, I like what the French do with fries, but French style green beans are not cool. The French should leave my green beans alone. They should stay up on their castle walls, insult the Brittons, and throw cows at people.
Can I throw your three French hens back at you? Run away!
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Four Calling Birds.
Birds. Again. Really? Really. You're like the least creative true love in the world. I guess that serves me right for dating a guy who works in an aviary. But what am I supposed to do with these FOUR calling birds? I mean, if they're going to be making calls all the time, I'm going to have to get some kind of family plan with my mobile carrier just to accommodate them. Sure, I can feed the partridge the pears, but I doubt my calling birds are going to settle for anything less than an unlimited calling/texting/data plan. Then again, how do they text with their little birdie feet? Maybe I can just convince them to use the banana phone.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Five Gold Rings.
Ah! Now we're getting somewhere. I mean, at least you're not giving me birds anymore. To be honest, though, my love, I was kind of hoping that at least one of those five gold rings had a diamond attached to it, but apparently my true love is a commitment-phobe. And you like birds. A lot. Yep, you're a keeper. Well, I don't really wear a lot of rings, so I guess I'll be calling those cash-for-gold people so I can get some money towards bird seed.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Six Geese A-Laying.
Dude. We were making great progress here, and then you go back to birds. What in the world am I supposed to do with six geese? And these six geese are a-laying. A-freakin-laying. That means little baby geese, because I'm not really sure I want to eat a goose egg. Maybe I'll throw it at you along with the French hens.
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Seven Swans A-Swimming.
Darling. Dear heart. Love of my life. Does it look like I have a swimming pool at my apartment, or were you expecting me to keep seven a-swimming swans in my bathtub? Do you know how much of a mess seven swans a-swimming would make in my bathtub? Do you think my neighbors want to hear the sounds of seven swans a-swimming in my bathtub? Stop buying me birds.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Eight Maids A-Milking:
Okay, so granted, I am a bit of a slob, but it's kind of a slap in the face to say that I need EIGHT maids. And what exactly are they supposed to be milking? All you've given me up to now is a bunch of scrap gold, a pear tree, and a plethora of useless birds. I mean, unless these turtle doves are some kind of wonderful mutant birds that have developed mammary glands, I'm pretty sure you can't milk a bird. If you're going to buy me milking maids, you should probably at least be considerate enough to buy me a cow or a goat or something that can actually be milked. But you know what, I really don't want a goat in my bathtub either.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Nine Ladies Dancing.
You know, you can keep them, because I'm pretty sure that you're going to need a new true love (or nine of them) in the near future...
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Ten Lords A-Leaping.
Leaping Lords! Just what I always wanted! Why are they leaping? Nobody knows! But maybe one of them is smart enough to realize that plants, birds, slave girls, and commitment-lacking cheap jewelry are not good gifts to give your true love...
On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Eleven Pipers Piping.
I'm confused. Are they here to play annoyingly high music, smoke 'baccy, or are they here to fix the plumbing? If they're here for the plumbing, I'm not sure why there are so many of them...
...but then my bathtub did get pretty clogged with all the a-swimming swan feathers.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Twelve Drummers Drumming.
No, thanks! I just roasted up the three French hens, so I have plenty of drumsticks.
This is why I'm single.
Merry Christmas!
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