Fa-la-la-la-la....

As usual, I am not bouncing and giggling my way into the Christmas season. Part of that is because I work in retail, and the season is more of a hurricane than a spiritual experience. It's not as crazy as it may be in a mall, so the customers I encounter aren't the frazzles crank-pots you may expect. But, boy howdy, there are a lot of them! My saving grace is that as a cashier, I'm always at the right end of the line up.

Perhaps part of it is the music. The same pre-fabricated feel-good bullocks year after year by a new batch of has-been artists trying to cash in.

Another root to my hum-bug is that I was 3000 kms from home (about the distance from Buffalo to Seattle, for my US readers, or from Portugal to Moscow for the Europeans.) for my early adulthood. My Christmas plans usually included laundry. Just as often, I would spend Christmas with the families of different friends. These turned out to be nice experiences, but they always started awkwardly.

Now that I have a family of my own, it's easier to get into the spirit of the season. By the 23rd, anyway. My wife seriously enjoys entertaining, so there's always the get-the-house-in-order project. I am really thankful to my mum-in-law for taking Chickerdoodle for a few hours, so we can really power through it, with both hands! (I've become pretty dexterous with one hand – FOR CHORES! Grow up!)

In slightly-related, the season has really brought to light what a “Dad” I've become. Several times, my wife asked what I want for Christmas, and I just shrugged and said “Dunno. Chapters card and a bag of Starbucks beans?” (“Chapters” is a Canadian version of Barnes & Noble.) While I am quite OK with that, the other example of Dad-ness was more disturbing. I made a pun. It was a good pun, but a pun none the less, and I hand my head in shame. Something about after eating Mom's turnip casserole (it's a lot better than it sounds), and keeping tight control at work, 'cause the gossips at work enjoy a “ripe tale.” (“ripe tail?”) Point being, most puns are really, really bad, especially the one's from newscasters, and I've never been shy about railing about it. Then my wife called me on my pun, and I had to admit: I made a bad “Dad Joke.” Someone please promise me, if I ever sit down to a family dinner and say “So, what are you all going to eat?” that you'll put a bullet through my head.