A Bizarro Rockwell X-mas

Maybe for you, like for the people who make Hallmark commercials, the idea of Christmas conjures Norman Rockwell-ish images of families cozily gathered around the warm glow of a fire, rosy-faced and gazing at each other fondly with the twinkle of lights on the tree behind them, with Sister carefully opening a present while Brother, Mom, Dad, and Grandma all watch in eager anticipation. Doesn’t that just sound like Christmas to you?

It doesn’t to me. I think more of people doing 85 different things at once, telling off-color jokes and making fun of each other in a way that typically escalates into some enthusiastic expectorations of, “Sheeeeeeiiiiiiitttttt,” or, “Well, now, goddammit…” Don’t get the wrong idea. People aren’t being mean or evil, and it’s not like the kind of stuff you see on Cops: Naughty or Nice. It’s all in good fun, and everyone laughs a lot. We just generally have somewhat skewed senses of humor. For example, my mom gets a kick out of involving Granny in different things. She’s always telling me how she “took Mother to Texas” or “took your granny for a boat ride” or something like that. I know that doesn’t sound all that odd at first, but the thing is that my granny is dead. So Mom is really talking about doing those things with Granny’s ashes. Weird, huh? I think so, but it’s weird in a creepy but funny sort of way. And Mama Abs refuses to believe that it’s even a little bit creepy. People who aren’t amused by it clearly don’t have senses of humor, according to her. However, I think it’s kind of a tired joke at this point because Granny died 10 and a half years ago, and they’ve been carting those ashes around ever since. (My uncle once put the ashes on a bar at the Elks lodge where Granny used to hang out and asked random people there, "You wanna buy my mother a drink?") Making it even weirder is that it’s really just half of Granny’s ashes doing these things at this point, as the other half have been buried or scattered or something. Sometimes, Mom will even “put Mother under the Christmas tree” (the ashes are in a goldish box with a ribbon on it). Sigh. I guess Granny did always like Christmas. All that is by way of explaining that I think it’s safe to say that Mr. Rockwell didn’t spend any time at my folks’ house at Christmas time. Or if he did, he sure as hell didn’t paint pictures about it.

Take this Christmas, for example. Instead of a traditional gift exchange, we decided to try a Yankee Swap type of thing with my step-dad’s family. The short explanation is that everyone brings a gift and puts it under the tree. Then everyone draws a number. The person with number 1 chooses and unwraps a gift from under the tree, then the person with number 2 can either take number 1’s present causing number 1 to pick and unwrap a new present, or number 2 picks and unwraps a new present. Et cetera. I’ve tried this with lots of different groups, and they often don’t get into the spirit of the thing, which can be summed up in one word: "MINE!". These folks who don't get into the proper spirit think it’s “mean” to “steal” someone else’s present, so it ends up being just a gift drawing. Booooorrrrriiiiinnnnnggggg. I knew that this family group would have no trouble with those types of hang-ups, and it would be a good time. I wasn’t disappointed.

There were some growing pains as people got into the flow of this kind of gift exchange. I got hosed by drawing number 2, so I didn’t expect to end up with a good present. What I unwrapped when it was my turn was a handful of little glass things that Mom told everyone were “salt dips.” I don’t know what that means, and I don’t want to, but the kicker was that these glass thingies were once my step-dad’s mom’s property, thus making them heirlooms, I guess. Having heard that, I thought there was a good chance that someone would steal them from me or at least give me something more interesting for them afterwards like, say, a pack of matches.

After I unwrapped the glass dip thingies, Mom was explaining to everyone (about 15 people) what they were and where they came from. As that explanation wound down, my step-dad’s grandson’s fiancée (or should I say my step-sister’s son’s fiancée? how about step-nephew’s fiancée? whatever, you get the idea), who is a nice, sweet girl who recently graduated with a degree in Mortuary Science – no, I am not making this up – decided to move things along and grabbed a gift to open. Not many people noticed, though, as there was a general hubbub about the dip thingies and who wanted them (not me) and how there were other family heirlooms to consider among the gifts under the tree. However, the to-be-step-niece-in-law got everyone’s attention by holding her newly unwrapped gift – a bag of some indeterminate material – aloft, patting it, and asking, “What is this? Is this a joke?” Everyone in the room looked confused as they tried to figure out what it was. Apparently, it was a joke, as evidenced by my brother and I nearly collapsing in fits of laughter when we realized what it was. Then, Mama Abs started laughing. The to-be-wife-of-my-step-dad’s-grandson wanted to know what we were laughing at, but we couldn’t tell her just then, due to all the laughing we had to do.

Finally, gasping and stuttering in between guffaws, I said, “Those. Are. My grandmother’s. Ashes. Half of them anyway.”

Hilarity ensued from there, and I imagine a weird and possibly creepy family tradition was born. And why not? Granny always did like Christmas.

To her credit the girl in question laughed about it, too. And, yes, she was allowed to grab another gift. And, no, I didn’t get stuck with the glass salt things. I got a DVD. So everybody won.

Can you imagine that in a Norman Rockwell painting?

Me neither.

Monday Night Chronicles

I'm doing something I almost never do: I'm watching Monday Night Football in real time. I'm doing that because it's the Colts vs. the Bengals, and they are my two favorite teams. Happily, the Colts have stepped out to a 10-3 lead, but there's still a lot of time left to play. That said, watching in real time (rather than DVR-delayed) shows me just how annoying the eleventy-seven commercials an hour on MNF are. (Blast! Former Wahoo Terrence Wilkins just muffed a punt to give the Bengals excellent field position after a 3 and out.)

Luckily for me, I have the Chronicles to take up that commercial time. Keeping with the holiday spirit theme we established last time out, I'm going to share a video that Lawton sent to me. It's the Scrubs cast doing voice-overs of A Charlie Brown Christmas, and it's good times. Enjoy. (And now the Bengals have tied it up. Dammit, Terrence!)

We Got Spirit, Yes We Do

I like Commercialmas as much as the next guy. At least, provided that the next guy is another guy who kind of likes the season but isn't crazy-gung-ho about it and definitely doesn't think carols and such should be heard until December. Once December rolls around, I'm fine with it, but my desire to never decorate (much less to put up temporary decorations that will require effort to take down in the near future) is often misconstrued as a general bah-humbugness. The midnight, December 1st (an not a minute earlier) was a rule that a college roomie and I imposed on an overly (from our perspective) enthusiastic third roomie back in the day, and it has always stuck with me. For that reason, unlike Jen, I don't load Christmas tunes on the AbsPod. But I digress.

Just to show you that I'm not really all Scrooged up, I will share something with you. The other night, the Girl came over having heard a song that was "just so ridiculously cute" that she wanted to hear it more and more. In fact, she was a little irked that she didn't grow up hearing that song all the time. A little Googling found it for me, and I have to admit that 1) I had also never heard it before and 2) on the cute scale, it registers somewhere around ridiculous. So for your listening (and perhaps list-making) and spirit-imbuing pleasure, I give you this song (despite the possible lack of research by the singer)

Merry Christmas. I wish peace, mirth, joy, and (tame, pleasant) hippos for all.

Ticker Translation

The other night, the Girl and I were hanging out and watching some college hoops, when she asked me, all out of the blue like, "What's mnf?"

"Mnf?" I asked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Yes, mnf. What is it?"

I was confused. She's quite good with words, and she's generally pretty good at using them. Plus, her diction is such that it wasn't likely a problem with her enunciation. After some probing and clever cross-examination, I found out that this "mnf" was something she had seen on TV. Thanks to the powers of the DVR (which, even though the Comcast version is a piss-poor imitation of the goodness that is a Tivo, did come in handy), I was able to see what she was talking about. The ticker on the bottom of the screen, where ESPN2 shows scores and such had a score category labeled "MNF."

"That's Monday Night Football, baby."

"It is? Why don't they just call it 'NFL?' Isn't it kind of obvious that it's the Monday Night kind?"

I think it has something to do with branding, or name recognition, or some damned fool marketing concept that sounds good on paper. But, to paraphrase Kenny Mayne, concepts aren't played out on paper; they're played on TV sets. And that one is a head-scratcher.

Another Straw on the Haystack

It was very odd to me when I received a request for my blog last week. First, someone was admitting out loud that he or she reads it, damn the aspersions that fact may cast on his or her character. Second, the request was specifically for "non-sports" content. Granted, my blog is not a sports blog. However, I do love the sports. And the college basketball. (Yes, I know it's a sport, but I feel it deserves its own mention.)

Still, never let it be said that the reader's voice goes unheard or unheeded. This is not at all a sports post. Instead, it is another small pebble in the mountain of evidence that I am an idiot.

I thought I managed my morning pretty well today. I got out of bed, showered, dressed, grabbed my computer, iPod, breakfast, and soda, and hit the road. I made it in in plenty of time for my morning meeting, did my part, and headed back to my desk. All good, right?

The only thing is that on the way back to my desk, another meeting attendant discreetly told me that there was a sticker on my pants. So I looked. No, on the other side, the informant told me. Sure enough, there was a sticker indicating the size of the trousers, which is helpful when there are many of them on a shelf, but not so helpful post-purchase. That is, it's not helpful unless one is looking for evidence that the wearer is somewhat clueless. Sigh.

The worst part is that I couldn't be completely certain whether I had worn these pants before. I'm hoping I hadn't.