Thoughts Concerning My Benevolent Nature

Some call me generous; others, thoughtful. And if both camps agree on one thing, it's this:

I'm always looking out for other people.

That's why I don't want you to torture yourself when it comes to selecting the perfect Christmas gift for me this year.

I'll tell you.

Happy S.A.D.!

Today somewhere in America, one friend of mine will be receiving the following homemade card in the mail.

Now, I know what you're thinking: the thirdworstpoetinthegalaxy has friends?

I'm as surprised as you are.

Anyway. Because I like you all so much I thought I'd share with you an electronic version of my handiwork, outside and in.

Now before I go, just a brief reminder that it's OK to be alone on the 2nd most depressing day of the year. Your melancholia just might do the world some good. Besides, who cares if you're miserable so long as everyone else is happy....

Christmas (In a Nutshell)

So the holiday started off by preparing Maude for a couple long days alone. That meant cleaning and filling her "water fountain," leaving additional bowls of water and food around my apartment, and purchasing fresh "cat grass" -- not to mention, the live catnip pictured here.

And then it was off to Christmas Eve, which -- ever since my family "cancelled" Christmas years ago -- I spend with a friend's family in lieu of mine. Here she models with one of the gifts I purchased for her -- a rather macabre learning tool depicting the skeletal system.

[Yes, it's blurry, I know -- but I'm not about to post a clear picture of friends and family without first receiving written permission.]

Next was Christmas. And though Santa arrived as anticipated

This little elf spent the morning and afternoon hopping from one house to the next visiting relatives and dropping off gifts before touching any of her own.

Lunch was had at a relatives, where my aunt displayed an interesting collection of dolls, including one that looks a little like me... aside from the hideous ribbon and gold glasses.

[Mine, for the record, are tortoise.]

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (errr... family room) my cousin took on his six-year-old son in a game of pool. My cousin, much to his chagrin, barely escaped defeat.

My fascination for the "8 ball" prompted all variety of questions regarding my gang affiliation. I tried explaining how intrigued I was by the Greek symbol for infinity (an "8" laid upon its side), but they weren't convinced.

Next up was my grandparents' home, where my youngest nephew sat down for a chat with his great grandfather.

There aren't really any pictures of me to memorialize the occasion, though I swear I was there. See? Here's my foot.

If you're lucky, I may reveal a bit more of myself in a future post.

[And by that I mean: I may show BOTH of my feet.]

Still not convinced I was there? Here's another shot of me back at my parents.

That aforepictured youngest nephew -- known simply as "The Trunk Baby" to many in blogosphere -- was less than thrilled by the "Safety 1st" items I purchased for him for Christmas. You know, the latches to keep him out of kitchen cabinets (and refrigerator) and even a nifty little contraption to keep him from swimming in the toilet.

Luckily, the giant stuffed elephant I also purchased for him was very well-received.

But there's also now a (step)neice in the mix -- not to mention my oldest nephew, an amazing kid with whom I was sorry to only get to spend an hour or two.

In any event, with so many kids roaming about, this was the most action-packed holiday of recent memory.

Once things slowed down a bit, a boy and his grandfather relived the first few months of the former's life thus far.

Before moving on to demonstrate that though he understands quite well the notion of object permanence, he's still nevertheless convinced that the "other" baby in the mirror should come out and play.


On the Third Day of Christmas, I made the long drive to visit a good friend and her newborn. Though she's not the first of my friends to have a child, she's the first of "The Five" (the girls with whom I've been friends for an exceedingly long time). So we marked the occasion with an amateur photo shoot.

Not to mention, baby's first outing. "Where'd she go her first time out of the house?" you ask.

Wal-Mart.

OK, so it's not glamorous. But reality seldom is, folks.

I returned to my home base with not-so-good pizza, which I was more than happy to share with the group. Unfortunately, "Santa Claws" was still there, seeking hydration in someone's water glass when they weren't looking.

On day four, I joined my brother and his new family for the celebration of his stepdaughter's second birthday.

Incidentally, my brother is wearing this tiara in the last photo I took of him -- or should I say, the last photo I'll take of him for at least 12 months. But more about that later.

Santa? Or Satan.

I won't comment about my childhood, except to say I've noticed many in my generation get along with their parents much better now than they did, say, 15 years ago.

And whether that's because our parents were all "mean" or "lame" (we no doubt offered these adjectives — along with countless others — to our friends), the fact remains that — with time — both sets mellow down just enough to make congenial conversation possible.

I've noticed this effect quadruples with the addition of the first grandchild, when parents become a few degrees "grander" in nearly all respects: a tad more patient, and giving, we see them treating their grandchild in a way that almost infuriates us.

You never let me do that when I was a kid...
You never bought me so much stuff...
You never let me jump on the bed...

But I digress. The fact remains that the more time passes, the kinder many folks seem to become.

In which case: my mother is a very nice person. She'll talk your ear off and — if you visit her at home — there's a good chance she'll try to give you something before you leave.

She does this to me all of the time. Now, maybe when I first left home and needed coffee tables and a television and all that, I was more than happy to take their hand-me-downs. But now I'm a bit older and still living in apartments, in which case my possessions have far outgrown my living space.

Not to mention that — though in some cases I like my mother's tastes — for the most part we're very different when it comes to decor.

She likes pink. I like burnt orange. She likes Victorian. I appreciate some Victorian, but prefer modern and/or retro. She collects Christmas stuff. I abhor clutter. She has a HUGE collection of Santas and Snowmen. They terrify me.


But one thing we do have in common is the tendency to move around. A LOT. And my parents have significantly downsized their living space in the past four years, though their quantity of household decorations has more likely increased.

This reality has hit my mother like a mean, angry stick lately and for a year or so every time I visit my folks, my mom tries to send me home with more... stuff.

I tell her I don't have the room (it's true). Tell her I appreciate the offer but, no, that angel "Gather Ye Friends" wall plaque just doesn't mesh with my Salvador Dali.

But, sometimes, I do like what she offers. And sometimes I will go home with another hand-me-down. But these times are few and far between, though I'm sorry to say this Thanksgiving was an exception.

My mother is trying to trim down her collection of Santas, and she offered 3 or 4 to my sister and I. There was a "larger" Santa that was fairly tasteful, and my sister quickly expressed interest (which is fine by me: she has a large house and still has room to grow). Two of the remaining Santas, for lack of a better description, actually caused us utter "Wow." in unison.

I mean.

Wow.

They were possibly the creepiest Santas I've ever seen. So creepy, in fact, that I felt I had no choice but to take them.

Because sometimes kitsch comes around full circle and becomes "interesting" again.

Enjoy.

The Winter of My Discontent

Say what you will about the holidays: at this time of year, the good cheer of the season is invariably at odds with the general mood of the populace.

You hear it as the checkout lines at busy stores; you sense it when one shopping cart bumps into another, or two hands reach for a single, fashionable clearance item -- the last one in the right size.

There is this feeling, first and foremost, that *I* matter above all others. That only *I* am in a hurry, and only *I* need to get home to my family.

It would do the world of us some good, I think, to open our eyes a bit wider. To see the universe around us for what it is, to leave our egocentrism at home before we venture out onto the dangerously unsalted sidewalks and crowded streets.

The hustle and bustle of this season is most assuredly that: and there is no denying a permeating sort of... sadness... in that space between the lines. The girl walking alone, eyes down, with smiling couples on both sides. The paraplegic in a wheelchair unable to navigate any limbs between the aisles, relying instead on the cold hands of a relative.

The mother yelling at her daughter. The kids telling their father that what they really need is...

Oh, let's be honest. It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter what you think you need because more often than not: you don't.

Not the iPod or the GPS. Not the digital camera or the diamond earrings. Not the epileptic Elmo or Butterscotch the Pony.

These things may distract us, I suppose, from what really ails us. We're stuffing possessions in-between the gaps in our lives, filling our shopping carts with stuff enough to compensate for what we can't find elsewhere.

A meaningful solution to the curse of our existence, a sort of cosmic comeuppance that haunts us from the cradle:

Fears of death, and loneliness, in a world where everyone dies and no one entirely escapes the latter.

But the fact remains that if you allow yourself to give into these fears, you'll spend a lifetime counting the lines on your own face, tracing the ever-changing path with a limp in your voice and a stutter to your step.

So you do what you can to distract yourself. You start your family and celebrate your Holy Days and line your fence with all the colors of the rainbow, too often forgetting that all around you are people very much so stuck in the same trap, the same dilemma, the same existential quandry.

But surely it occurs to you, from time to time, that you are not alone. That the world is full of people caught in varying degrees of happiness, and suffering, and sometimes it's up to you to make their day a little better: to smile when you want to look away. To put a dollar into the cup when your instinct is to ignore that unquestionable jingle of change.

It will come back to you some day, most certainly, when you need -- or fear it -- most.

***
Along with sundry other changes in my life, this Christmas will mark the last day I see my brother for a good while, and I think -- in a way -- I'm attempting to mask whatever it is I feel (or don't) with more gifts than I (or my banking account) can stand.

Intoxicated as I am by this same spirit, I am trying, with all my might, to not give in to the topical depression of this season. I have my Charlie Brown tree up.

And my stockings are hung with care.

And I think, maybe, this December will end more quickly than the long, slow drawl with which it began.

I want somehow to stop it. For the New Year to never come.

***

At work they're having a cube decorating contest; some are designing theirs as a ginerbread house. Others Santa's workshop.

Mine, if I muster the energy, will look a little like the decor I've established at home (see photos above).

I'll give you one guess as to what I'm calling it.