Well, here it is, Christmasolstikwanzaakah again. Life is confusing for a Jewish atheist in a Christian-dominated country in December, that’s all I’m saying. This year, I’m trying to have a sense of humor about the inescapable holidays and celebrate all of them with good cheer, where cheer = Bailey’s Irish Cream.
So far, I’ve purchased gifts for my children, one for each night of Chanukah (which begins this evening at sundown), lovingly wrapped them, and placed them under the Christmas tree. We picked the tree up on Sunday and the kids decorated it yesterday, after several false starts in which they put the lights on wrong and we undid it and then I put the lights on wrong and then we undid it and then my husband, the sole member of the family with anything resembling a Christian background and therefore Christmas tree experience, put the lights on right. We have lots of ornaments because…why DO we have so many ornaments? I am at a loss to explain this, but there it is.
So there’s a tree with Chanukah presents under it and the lights can be plugged in when the bunny is in his cage. When he’s out hopping around the lights must be unplugged because those wires just look so tasty to him. I guess rabbits are atheists, too.
Over the weekend we went to a Christmas caroling party, as we do every year. I always go out and sing all of the songs, even the Jesus-y ones, because it’s fun. I sing quietly, not because the songs are Jesus-y but because I can’t actually carry a tune, and I don’t think belting out a Jesus-y song off-key would count as making a joyful noise unto the lord. To all the people who stood on their front porches to listen and couldn’t hear me—you’re welcome.
At one house, where there were lights on inside and Christmas decorations outside, we rang the bell expecting to be greeted by a happy carol-listener. To our surprise, the homeowner opened the door, looked at the crowd in street beginning to sing “Deck the halls” or whatever, and slammed the door shut. That was weird.
Later, we were headed back to the party house when a guy in a car marked “security” drove up and asked if there was something he could do for us, like we were a roving band of nogoodniks out looking for trouble. Since the average age of our caroling crew was somewhere around the mid-fifties and we were all carrying songbooks and jingle bells, I didn’t think we looked all that alarming, but you can’t be too careful these days.
What I really wanted to tell you was how my eleven-year-old entertained herself at the boring grown-up Christmas party after the caroling was over, but I’ve run out of blogging time and must get on with earning my daily pittance. So you still have that to look forward to. Cheers, Xanga friends. You know what I mean.