| This quote from A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius utterly trumps the previous, which shows how extraordinarily clever it is. Ooh, and I got really good headphones for my iPod, which helps because I haven't used it in some 3 or 4 months. And I died and cut my hair (at once, yes), so I look a bit different. So it's a sweet and sour deal.
Aw, who the fuck am I kidding. I'm doing this so that I can look back at my own life, not for nobody else (catch that?).
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Our mother was a Christmas extremist. Weeks of eight-hour shopping days, lists tendered and revised. and revised again, presents pushing outward from the tree, almost to the foyer--a relentless effort to top previous years, to make it look not just joyous or extravagent, but obscene. My father, a fan but a less outwarly enthusiastic one, had a ritual, wherein he, because he was the father goddamn it, and had been up half the night putting the goddamn presents together, would rise late, and would come down, at oh maybe ten or so, not to watch us open our presents, but to make for himself and eat a full breakfast. Coffee, danish, bacon, orange juice, grapefruit, newspaper, everything--and at the most leisurely of paces. As we waited, cross-eyed with anticipation, kids from the neighborhood, most of whom had been up since four or five, would frolic outside our windows with new sleds, taunting us, riding by on their Green Machines, pushing the pedals with new moon boots, shining in the winter sun, utterly fabulous.
This Christmas we're dying because Beth and I have been doing the routine. Bill has been sitting, disapproving but still laughing, arms crossed, shaking silently. The routine, which begins after we've woken up and before Toph has started unwrapping, goes like this:
BETH: Okay, you can open them now.
ME: No, actually, wait. (Picking lint from shirt, then slowly, slowly untying and then tying shoes) Okay...now.
BETH: Actually, hold on. I have to use the bathroom. (Sounds of water from the faucet. Then silence. Then flushing. More water. Then tooth-brushing)
BETH: (Reappearing from the bathroom, refreshed, straightening sweater) Okay, I'm ready. Go ahead.
ME: Wait a sec, wait a sec. You know what would be delicious about now? Grapefruit.
BETH: Mmm. Grapefruit.
ME: Let's have some grapefruit, then you know what? We could all take a nice walk.
BETH: That would be so nice.
ME: Fresh air, some exercise...
BETH: And closer to God...
ME: And closer to God.
BETH: We can have Christmas tomorrow!
BETH: (Thinking, clicking tongue) Oooh. Tomorrow's no good. Thursday?
ME: Thursday's bad. And the weekend's tight. Monday?
At this point, Beth and I are choking, crying, contorted, looking to furniture for support. We knock ourselves out.
Toph is waiting, unimpressed. He's seen the routine before.
Addressing Toph's presents is up to me, and the night before, I do everything I can to spruce up the task, to forge new ground. Some I address to fictitious recipients, or to other kids in the neighborhood. Many of Toph's presents I address to myself. Those that actually bear his name are misspelled. Or else I do what I do when filling out school forms: I get his name wrong, writing "Terry" or "Penelope," then cross it out and write his real name, smallish, below. I sign a few from "Us," a few from "Santa," but prefer this:
FROM: God.
He doesn't know who to thank. He does not want to seem overly cavalier when reaping the booty, and we exploit his eagerness to please. A package of colored clay is opened.
"Thank you," he says.
"Thank who?"
"I don't know. You?"
"No, not me. Jesus."
"Thank you, Jesus?"
"Yes, Toph, Jesus died for your Christmas fun."
"He did?"
I turn to Bill. Bill is staying out of it.
"He did," I say. "Beth, did he not?"
"Indeed he did. Indeed he did."
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God, when did I run out of patience with myself? I seems a short while ago, but I'm too pissed of to know for sure. It's a damn shame. |
