Long, long ago at a hospital far, far away, I was enthralled by a co-worker’s description of her Christmas celebration back home. Back home being one of those states that has too many vowels, snow, and people with rosy Germanic cheeks.
She was teary eyed and breathless as she described the family traditions. Decorating the tree, making eggnog, attending midnight church services. Caroling, for Pete’s sake, in the freaking snow, door to door, getting mugs of hot chocolate. Home made presents, the annual gag gift. Matching sweaters. Christmas dinner. Love and cheer.
From the look of co-worker #2 who was listening in, we both had the same idea: this chick was nuts, living in some sort of Christmas commercial family land.
“You call that Christmas?” I asked.
“That isn’t Christmas. Who got drunk? Who cried? Who told who what they weren’t supposed to? Who had a screaming match? Who stormed out, swearing they’d never come back to this f***ed up place ever again? Who stood in the middle of the living room begging for everyone to just please stop fighting for one hour so we could have a nice Christmas for once?”
“Now, that’s Christmas.”
Co-worker #2 just nodded.
Loki sez: You aren't going to try to make me wear that reindeer antler hat again, are you?