Category: Holidays Page 3 of 5

Reasons I’m Thankful

On November 29, 2010

At Thanksgiving dinner we were requested by our hostess to say something we were thankful about. I said I was thankful I got to go skiing earlier in the day, and to my credit I did NOT say I was also thankful that I got to do something fun with my family instead of spending days cleaning, shopping, and cooking the feast.

My gynecologist turned me on to skiing on Thanksgiving. He was looking at me through the stirrups, making idol chitchat about how he and his sons have been going to the mountain for years because there are no crowds and no lift lines. “When we get home, my wife has a big turkey feast waiting for us,” he said as he, well, uh, never mind.

I wonder what it would be like to be the wife of a gynecologist?

Since he told me that about skiing, I’ve made it my life’s goal to get invited out for Thanksgiving rather than spending it in the kitchen slaving. I’ve been able to do it for the last two years, and with any luck, I can keep this tradition going.

But scamming Thanksgiving dinner is not today’s topic. Nope, getting out of cooking and cleaning is wonderful, but I want to devote this space to some of the things I’m thankful for. Let me share my little list.

I’m thankful that my kids no longer rely on me to drive them around. Oh Lord am I thankful for that.
I’m thankful that, in spite of how much they appear to bumble, the politicians I voted for are trying hard to make life better for me personally and for others.

Speaking of others, I’m thankful I live in a country that wants to take care of our poor even when some of them seem to be taking advantage. I would hate to live in a third world country where the poor line the streets like wax paper and no one pays any attention to them. If I didn’t have to pay taxes, that would be great, but I love knowing our poor aren’t nearly as poor as the poor in the rest of the world.

When you get right down to it, I’m actually thankful I pay taxes, because I like nice schools and roads, public buildings and museums, decent subsidized clinics where suffering people can find relief, and public housing for people who couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. I hate that there are selfish people who take advantage of my taxes (shame on you), but I’m very happy that children born to poor families get the opportunity to be educated in spite of their circumstances.

I’m thankful for my dog who is excited when I walk in the door even if I’ve just gone out to the mailbox.

I’m thankful for TV. Yes there are so many awful programs (Jerry Springer to name a few), but I like finding free movies to watch so I can float away from reality like a soapy bubble out of a plastic wand. I’m especially thankful for The Big Bang Theory.

I’m thankful for laptops and comforters and chocolate chips and sunny days.

Now I’m going to give YOU something to be thankful about. I’m going to end this sentimental romp down Pollyanna lane and jump into something I’m very, very thankful for. A warm bed piled with heirloom quilts my Grandma Wheeler patched together. Now that right there is definitely something to be thankful about.

Musings on Freedom

By Suzanne Olsen

On July 4, 2010

In Holidays

Happy 4^th of July. I hope it is warm and sunny at your picnic because it is FREEZING here in Portland with no sun to be found anywhere. We are getting ready to go to a barbecue and I’m bundling up in socks and long underwear.

I should probably wax poetic about freedom, but what I really want to talk about is the new priest at our church – and the old woman’s handbag. Can I squeeze it all in? I’ll give it a try.

I’m thankful for our freedom here in America. I am very thankful for our government, our highways and parks and schools and public buildings that our freedom (and taxes) allow us to enjoy.

Pressing on to our next stop, the new priest – I really like him. He’s from Washington DC, well-educated and well-spoken, and FUNNY. He told a story about a preacher who was teaching a group of pre-schoolers about the freedom they have as Christians. “Now I’ve told you all that you are free in Jesus. So everyone who is free, raise your hand.” All the kids raised their hands but one. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I just told you that everyone in this room has the freedom of Jesus, so everyone who is free, raise your hand.” Again the one did not raise his hand. The preacher went over and asked him, “Johnny, I just said everyone in this room was free, so why aren’t you raising your hand?” The little boy grinned real big and said, “I used to be free until yesterday, and then I turned four.”

The congregation laughed at this and several other jokes and asides. I didn’t drift off to sleep even once. I think I’m going to like Father Charles very much.

On to our final stop, the old woman’s purse. During Mass, when we got up to go to communion, I went out into the aisle, received communion and went back to my pew from the other end. I saw my purse right there, which threw me completely off, since I then noticed that my purse was where I left it, down at the other end of the pew. Whoa! I felt like I was in a parking lot trying to get into my car, and then noticing my actual car a row away.

These two purses are run-of-the-mill black and white department store purses – not Coach or Prada. Mine was not very expensive, but it is practical and goes with everything and I’ve been quite pleased with it. Until today. Once I saw that someone else had my exact purse, I wanted to see who it was. I settled myself in the pew and watched the people filing in.

Oh my gosh! This very elderly woman with tight curly white hair, and elastic waist pants, baggy button up shirt, old woman orthotic shoes, etc. – she was the one who had the same exact purse as me.

Now I’ve got to get rid of the purse. I carry the same one until it falls apart or I get really tired of it. Luckily I was getting tired of this one. If you think I’m being petty, that’s your prerogative.

After all, it is a free country.

Remember What Memorial Day Is About

By Suzanne Olsen

On May 31, 2010

In Holidays

I got an email from a friend this morning that reminded me what today was all about. I am copying some of it here. I don’t know the copywrite laws on duplicating emails but I hope I’m not breaking them. When you are thinking about your appliance sales and barbecues today, please take a moment to reflect on why the word “Memorial” comes from the word “memory,” and remember the brave men and women who gave their lives so that I could write this blog and you could read it.

It is
the VETERAN,
not the reporter,
who has given us freedom of the press.

It is
the VETERAN,
not the poet,
who has given us freedom of speech.

It is
the VETERAN,
not the campus organizer,
who has given us freedom to assemble.

It is
the VETERAN,
not the lawyer,
who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is
the VETERAN,
not the politician,
Who has given us the right to vote.

It is the
VETERAN who
salutes the Flag.

Finding the Perfect Card

By Suzanne Olsen

On May 24, 2010

In Holidays

My brother’s birthday is tomorrow and I forgot to buy him a card. So I went to look in the box of cards I bought just for this contingency. A neighbor of mine years ago gave me the idea – she used to buy cards on sale so she’d have a card on hand for anything that came up.

I thought it was a good plan, so I went to Hallmark and bought some cards that I thought were pretty funny. I also picked up a bundle of cards when my girlfriend dragged me to a garage sale.

I still have most of these cards, even though this was years ago. The garage sale ones were pathetic. Here are some of the sayings (you’ll notice a couple are based on very old commercials):

“How do you spell relief?” (open) “J-A-N-U-A-R-Y! Happy Holidays!”

(Two frogs on a wedding cake) “Two words come to mind on this momentous occasion.” (open) “You fools!”

“How about…” (open) “…a nooner?”

“Double your pleasure, double your fun…” (open) “run your paycheck through the copy machine!”

“Meet me later….” (open) “in your birthday suit?”

Who bought those cards in the first place? Or have they just made the rounds from garage sale to garage sale, picking up new bad cards along the way like snow tires pick up gravel?

The Hallmark cards are funny, but now that I own them, I have a hard time giving them to actual people I know. Many are about aging, and when I think of a friend opening them and reading the message, it seems a little cruel, so even though I love them and laugh each time I read them, I haven’t been able to pass them on. Here’s a sampler:

“You aren’t getting old” (open) “Hell, you were old last year.”

“Don’t let them tell you what people your age can and can’t do!” (open) “That’s what your knees are for.”

“It appears that sucking in your gut like that…” (open) “has blown the hair off the top of your head.”

If someone is really bald, AND has a gut, could I make fun of them by giving them a card pointing this out? Sure, we’d all get a laugh, but it’s a cruel joke on the birthday girl.

At what age does humor about aches and pain turn into a vicious reminder that you are getting old and it’s all downhill from here? People like me who have a sense of humor can see that this is tongue in cheek, but can the one being honored on his birthday? I’d much rather get a card that talks about getting old as being like fine wine – comparing aging to a process in which a sweet, juicy grape is turned into a dry, fermented beverage that’s one step away from being vinegar.

Wait a minute, no I wouldn’t. I DO NOT want to be reminded that I’m “getting older” on my birthday. I want to pretend it’s just another day and I will continue to be immortal. The aches in my joints are temporary inconveniences that WILL NOT be worse tomorrow.

So once again, I’m going to leave those “old” cards in the card box and go buy a new one that will tell my brother how much I appreciate him even though he used to beat me within an inch of my life when we were kids. I hope Hallmark has one that says that – and I’m betting they will.

Easter Feaster

By Suzanne Olsen

On April 5, 2010

In Food, Holidays

Yes, I know, I know. I’m behind. I’ll get caught up in the next day or two because I’m almost at half a year of blog posts. Yippee!

Ready for my excuses for missing a couple of posts? Sure you are. We had a slew of people over for Easter. What a joy! I stayed up until 3 am Saturday night tying little plaid ribbons around napkins and putting together Easter baskets for my ungrateful, way too old children. What is the cutoff for this kind of stuff? Will I be making them baskets when I’m in the nursing home?

I made little clues for a scavenger hunt for my daughter (my son has lost interest). I usually make each clue a little narratives like, “look in a place where your dad snores.” That’s a good one, because she’d have to look in the bed, on the couch, on the other couch, in the La Z Boy, at the kitchen table, and in the bathtub.

At 3:00 I wasn’t in the mood for writing little novels, so here were my clues: “Brrrr.” “Kick it,” “Shelley’s perch,” “Dad’s perch.” I made 14 of them and taped them all over the place. She’d go to the one that said, “Shelley’s perch” and then she’d find another one hidden there that said, “Brrrr” and she’d go look in all the refrigerators and freezers and found the next one that said, “Kick it.”

“Is it on the dog?” she asked.

“Kick the poor little sweet dog?????” I asked. “And it’s Easter morning!”

This one she could not get. She looked all over the house for balls or kickable objects. Then she looked all around my son’s drum set. “I can’t find it,” she whimpered.

“What’s the clue?” her dad asked.

“Kick it.”

“Did you look on the dog?”

“Enough!!!” I said. “It’s a device that kicks things.”

She roamed through the house again. “Is it a hula hoop?” “Is it a book?” “Is it the sewing machine?”

“It’s a DEVICE in the BONUS ROOM that kicks things.”

“We’re going to be late for church.”

“It’s a GAME in the bonus room that kicks things.”

She went out there and looked around, completely stumped.

“A GAME! A DEVICE!”

“Oh, the foosball table,” she finally said when I clumped my coffee mug down on it.

There were a few other clues that had her scratching her head, but finally she found the basket, I took some pictures, and we both rushed to get ready. She was right, we were late for church and had to stand up through the whole service – me in my heels and her without a coat right by the door where assorted people kept taking fussy children out of or sneaking late into.

It was a great day though, thanks to the company and the feast my husband cooked. I wish you could have seen it! He made enough for a hundred people, and I did my very best to mow through my fair share, but we’ve still got a refrigerator full of leftovers even after giving a ton of it away.

At exactly midnight on Saturday, I grabbed every bag of Easter candy I could find and gorged myself on chocolate. If you’ve never given up sweets for 40 days, you don’t know what sheer joy there is in tasting your first chocolate at 12:01 am on Easter Sunday. What a veritable feast it was. I am so thankful to the Hershey’s company for making all that good stuff.

I was also thankful that the good Lord let me get through Easter Sunday without feeling tired. He even made me hyper! But that could have been the chocolate, no?

My Most Romantic Experience

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 14, 2010

In Holidays

In honor of Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d disclose my most romantic experience. This happened with a guy I was getting ready to break up with. He was a lawyer, a bright, fun loving guy on rare occasions, but mostly what he enjoyed doing most while we were together was filling me in on every mundane detail of his legal day. He talked about writing briefs and his boss and numerous phone calls he’d gotten through the day. I concluded that a dog groomer has a more exciting job than his.

He was also living in a place that literally had a path running through the mess to get from room to room. Dishes covered every surface in the kitchen. Note pads, mail, books, and newspapers covered every other surface in the house, and clothes and paraphernalia covered the floors. I knew one other person who lived like this – in her hippie parents’ house. She was embarrassed to have anyone over, but not this guy. He didn’t see anything wrong with his housekeeping.

There were a couple of other reasons I was ready to end our three-month courtship, although I liked his personality when he wasn’t busy reciting lawyerly dribble. Perhaps he picked up on my vibe, because I loved to hike, so he suggested we start at McLeay Park and walk to the Pittock mansion.

It was a sunny, warm summer day, and I was thrilled at the prospect. When we got to Pittock Mansion, we could see the whole city and several mountain peaks in the distance. I had that feeling of happiness that makes every hair follicle, every pore, every sensation crisp and vibrant so that I just wanted to dash around like Julie Andrews on the mountaintop in, “The Sound of Music.”

We walked around, bathing in the sun’s rays and delighting in life. Then he sat down on a bench, and I sat beside him, looking at the view. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. He opened it deliberately and started reading out loud to me – in German. The sounds had a rhythmic cadence that was lyrical and soft, like a verbal caress.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

“German poetry,” he said. He looked down and read some more, and I listened more intently than I would have anything in English. Not knowing the meaning, I had to focus on his voice, his lips moving, the slight variances in his tone as he came to the end of lines, the miniscule rise in energy which meant something in the words was more lively. I was sucked into a vacuum of lazy sun’s warmth, musical words, and his lips moving softly.

After a period of time that could have been seconds or hours, he stopped reading, closed the book slowly, and tucked it back into his shirt. I had little hearts floating out of my chest, and twinkles in my eyes. I felt I had been caressed by words, and that I was the most special woman in the world.

That romantic experience carried me through an extra few days, but alas, reality bitch-slapped me and I knew this relationship was doomed to destruct, despite the poetic dalliance.

I have been wined and dined, I’ve gotten long stem red roses in a box delivered with a large red ribbon, I’ve had a few other tokens of romance that I’ve enjoyed, but none of them held a candle to listening to words I didn’t comprehend on a warm Sunday afternoon. Knowing that he stowed the book secretly with the intention of reading to me made it even more special.

It’s too bad that romance alone isn’t enough to make a good partner, because if that were enough, we’d still be together, and I’d be bored witless and continually digging out of his quagmire of daily debris. Ah, but the memory lingers like dark chocolate covering a creamy caramel center that flows when bitten in half.

Happy Valentines Day!

Mardi Grab

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 14, 2010

In Holidays

We went to a Mardi Gras party tonight. My husband prepared by going to the party store and buying a bunch of beads and masks and noisemakers. We took them to the party to find that our host had mountains of beads, masks and noisemakers scattered everywhere.

My husband says that the guys are supposed to wear lots of beads, and if the girls ask for a string, the guy gives her one but then she has to lift up her shirt. “It’s a tradition,” he said.

“The women at this party won’t have to lift their shirts very high,” I said.

I’m sure he didn’t care, because men seem to love the sight of a women’s private areas no matter how awful they are. Me, I’ve been in locker rooms with all ages, and I’d rather keep my eyes aimed at the floor. The imagination can’t even conceive what time and food will do to a woman’s body.

My husband likes to cook, so he wanted to make something even though we’d been requested not to bring anything. He was going to make crawdads but couldn’t find any, thank goodness. They give me the creeps and I won’t eat them. I’ve swam with them before and they shoot through the water backwards. To me, this is unappetizing.

He brought fixins for mint juleps instead, which I didn’t think was a Mardi Gras drink but Google said it was. Mint juleps seem like a Kentucky thing. We had quite a lot of fun at the party, but he didn’t get any flashers.

Then we went to a nightclub because one of our friends was playing horns in the band. They were great – they had a lead singer that had such a clear, powerful voice that glasses where shattering all around. I’m making that up, but it would have been fun to watch. My husband thought all the members of the band needed beads, even the ones playing guitar using both hands. The band was right on the dance floor on a foot high platform, and he stood in front of each band member, and there were eight of them, with the beads held out until they stopped playing and took them.

Then a bunch of girls wanted some beads, and he became the darling of the dance floor, handing out beads and explaining the tradition while I rolled my eyes. He’s decided he’ll carry beads around with him all the time since they are a babe magnet. I should be jealous, I guess, but I know him – he just wants to be silly and the life of the party. Who would have though a few strings of beads could attract new friends from all directions?

I, on the other hand, seemed to be attracting male attention like a Hummer driving up your street. I forgot to mention at the first soirée an older man offered to give me a neck message. I said, “Cool,” because my neck has been achy lately. He came over to where I was sitting and started rubbing my neck, except he’s just letting his hands kind of glide over the surface. He says, “I’m letting my energy pass to you to help loosen your muscles.” I don’t know if it was doing that much good, but it was pleasant enough. Then he started moving down my neck to my back, and around my shoulders. My husband was talking to the host but glancing over from time to time. I was talking to the guy’s wife, who assured me he does these massages everywhere he goes. As his hands wandered down my arms, I got the suspicion that those hands were going to start seeking out areas that didn’t need to be explored by a strange man. My husband walked by me about that time and leaned down to whisper, “It didn’t take you long to attract the party perv.”

All in all it was an evening of adventures, and I feel I’m ready now for the long forty days of Lent, which is what Mardi Gras is supposed to be about – doing everything you’re not supposed to do and then spending a couple of months repenting. My husband didn’t get any girls to raise their shirts, but he had fun trying. I got a pleasant massage from a geezer who, after he was done with me, set out to lavish his energetic hands on other fresh meat at the party. I don’t know if you could call any of this being naughty, but it was fun pretending.

The Presence of Presents

By Suzanne Olsen

On January 11, 2010

In Holidays

Yippee! I finally returned the last of the presents I bought for people in my family who didn’t want them, and the ones they bought for me that didn’t work out.

Presents are so delightful to open. How exciting to wonder what’s behind that pretty reindeer paper. Then I open the box and slide the tissue over to the side to discover a sweatshirt that’s a size too large and I’ve seen on my mother-in-law. Not that she doesn’t have good taste. She dresses more fashionably that a lot of other women her age – at least her tennis shoes are clean and her spiffy sweatshirt and elastic waist pants match. She dresses for comfort, and I don’t have a problem with that. I’m just not there yet.

My husband always feels compelled to buy me a nice piece of jewelry. By nice, I’m talking about anything over $49. I happen to enjoy cheap jewelry. If I lose it, I don’t have a conniption fit, and if I get tired of it, which I will, I can give it away without any remorse. A piece of fine jewelry – something with a microscopic diamond or two – will most likely wind up in a tiny velvet bag somewhere. I forget I have it, what with my extensive faux collection.

What’s amazing is that I’ve tried to take these more expensive pieces back, but the jewelry store won’t refund my money. They gladly offer to make an exchange for something else, even if I have the receipt, and even if I don’t see a thing in the store I want. Every time I end up going out of pocket to get a piece of jewelry that I might wear sooner or later.

Okay, you’re going to say I’m a b-word and should appreciate what I get. I am a b-word, yes, but I’m a darn thrifty one, and I don’t want my closet full of clothes I know I won’t wear or jewelry that hurts. Yes, hurts. The better quality earrings have thicker posts. After years of wearing cheap stuff, my ears cry out in agony, absolute agony, when I force those thick earrings in that tiny earlobe hole. Can I help it if I’m sensitive?

And if you’re thinking, “There’s nothing pleasing this b-word,” au contraire! I would be most pleased to receive a simple gift card to a store of my choice. It’s not as much fun to open, but at least I could try things on and make sure they fit and look nice on me. Back in the day I looked good in anything – even my mother in law’s sweatshirts. But now I’m fighting a cutthroat battle with Father Time, and he’s got me in a half nelson as it is. I can’t afford to give him any slack at all. I must be on guard at all times, vigilantly choosing attractive colors and the right fit to make my skin more lively, my jaws less saggy, and my spare tire less noticeable over my caboose. This takes hours and hours of shopping, and even then I may come home empty handed and fighting off tears. Those dressing room mirrors can be so cruel.

If you’re not feeling sorry for me yet, why not? My husband returns everything I give him. I’ll give him 4 or 5 items that I’ve lovingly shopped for, wrapped, and hidden until Christmas, and then he opens them and says, “I’ve got a shirt just like that,” or “Mmmm,” or “Pleats, really?” and so forth. I’m lucky if there’s even one thing doesn’t have to be taken back. I have to take my daughter with me to shop because I’ll end up returning all of my presents to her if I don’t. People can be so picky. My son is the only one who doesn’t return anything. He’d rather wear something he doesn’t like than do laundry.

One good thing is that all the birthdays and Christmas are done, and unless I forget and re-write this blog again, you may not have to hear about this particular whining for nearly a year. Yippee!

When You Care Enough to Give the Very Best

By Suzanne Olsen

On January 5, 2010

In Holidays

I mentioned yesterday that I had three birthdays at the first of this month, so tonight I went out to buy cards. I usually go to Hallmark because they have my same sense of humor. Their Shoebox cards are hilarious.

But tonight I was lazy and stopped at a close-by department store. I read card after card and came to a couple of conclusions about a certain card company’s humor: (1) they believe with all their hearts that if the word “fart” is on the card anywhere, it’s funny. There were pigs, cows, and goats passing gas, old women, men, and newborn babies passing gas, and gassy humor about standing too close to a lit birthday cake. I love a good gassy joke more than the next person, but some of these were too juvenile even for me. I just can’t picture a pig holding a long match and talking to a cow about her recent explosion. Sure, cows are known for passing a tremendous amount of methane gas, which scientists believe contributes to global warming because of the millions of cattle on the planet eating grass all day long. With four stomachs that turn grass into gas, each cow is an assembly line for noxious, flammable emissions.

But that is neither here nor there, nor funny either, in my book. Blatant fart jokes don’t appeal to me. What kind of person am I going to give a birthday card to that has an old woman farting and saying, “Hope your birthday is a gas?” The saying went out with Elvis to begin with, and I can tell you that none of my girlfriends, nieces, nephews, in-laws or anyone else would appreciate getting such a card. On the other hand, Hallmark did an amusing spin on this subject that I’ve given to a couple of people. It has two cartoon snakes on the front of the card, and one snake says to the other, “Pull my finger.” Now that’s funny. I’m laughing out loud right now.

This is so funny because it’s subtle – Hallmark assumes everyone who has been a kid in the USA knows what “pull my finger” means. My brother used to ask me to pull his finger all the time. I did it once, and we all know what happened. I was a quick study, and every time after that I said, “NO!” but he never gave up. From about age 5 to 23, I bet I heard that line 80 million times. For that matter, I still hear it.

The other thing that is so funny about that card is, (1) snakes don’t have a finger, and (2) I never knew them to be in the family of gas producers. If you had two bulldogs or pugs on the card, I don’t think it would be as funny. Everyone knows that these breeds would rather pass gas than eat or sleep or scratch or breathe. This is why I like Hallmark cards, they appeal to a little classier consumer, like me, who can appreciate the subtleties of bodily functions and present them in a tasteful way.

Hallmark had another card that I bought for a girlfriend who always gives me mean cards. She’s such a witch. I hate even opening them. She picks out these sweet cards with little flowers and nice sayings, and then you open them and they have some spiteful comment about how old you are. She throws her head back and laughs like a lunatic, then passes it around to everyone so they can laugh at me on my birthday and make me feel horrible. Just kidding, I’ve grown to like the cards now that I know I’m going to be slapped in the face when I open them. So I’m giving this one to her. On the cover it’s got that cartoon old lady, Justine, who says, “You’re not getting old…” and you open it up and it says, “Hell, you were old last year.” Touché!!!!

The other thing I didn’t like about those supermarket cards was their predictability. On one it had a cartoon drawing of a pretty cake and said, “I was going to give you a cake for your birthday…” and then you open it up and, SURPRISE, there’s an empty cake plate with some crumbs and a comment like, “but it was chocolate. Oh well, happy birthday.”0 I can guarantee you that any card starting out with, “I was going to….” will have a “but” on the inside with some lame excuse why you will only get a card and not the thoughtful item mentioned on the front. This simply highlights the person’s cheap, inconsiderate nature. I’ve gotten a couple of these kinds of cards, and you know who they’re always from? Some cheap, inconsiderate bastard who freeloads off of you whenever s/he can and wouldn’t think of being generous for even one day of the year.

Finally there was a card with a sexy guy’s belly in low jeans whipping up some whipped cream on a table about the height of his you know what. Splatters of whipped cream were on his jeans and tanned six-pack. The caption was something about licking it off. I guess this would be humorous to give to a single girl, but it was just so crass I can’t think of any of my single friends I’d give it too. Who wants to lick whipped cream off of blue jeans? Besides, if that idiot was whipping cream in my kitchen and splattering it all over the place, I’d give him a lickin’ all right. I’d scream like a banshee and hand him a sponge and stand over him until he cleaned it all up, then I’d make him take a shower and wash that sticky mess off. But that’s just me.

I finally purchased three of the least offensive cards I could find, but next time I go by Hallmark, I’m going to stock up again so I don’t have to wade through so many tacky cards. And no, I’m not being paid to say this by Hallmark, but if you’re listening, Mr. Hallmark, send me a card – and please enclose cash.

Post Christmas Blues

By Suzanne Olsen

On January 4, 2010

In Holidays

I’ve got the post-Christmas blues. I get ‘em every year because there is so much going on over the holidays – parties to attend, relatives to visit, shopping, cards, trees. Tossed in is my birthday and my husband’s birthday just before Christmas, and then New Years. If I weren’t sick enough of being in stores buying birthday and Christmas presents, along comes my mother-in-law’s birthday and my daughter’s and one of my closest friends, all before mid-January.

What’s given me the blues, though, is the lack of activity, which is pretty crazy because during all the pre-holiday activity, all I can think about is just getting a few moments of peace and quiet. Then when January 2nd and 3^rd come along and a little lull with nothing to look forward to except buying those other birthday presents and getting all the Christmas crap out of my house and back into the attic, I get sad.

Part of the sadness has to do with the stripping down of the house. When I put all my Christmas stuff up, I’m so excited – it’s been boxed up for 11 months and I forget how darned cute all those Santas and snowmen and nutcrackers are. When I put everything out it looks so warm and inviting. But after three weeks, I look at those things and start thinking, “clutter.” There’s a figurine or stuffed reindeer holding a Christmas tree on every surface of the house. A ceramic Christmas teddy bear sits in the kitchen waiting to be filled with cookies, along with assorted holiday towels and cutesy trays. It’s almost like a Santa whorehouse in here. Everything is red and sparkly and cheap looking. I’ve got some fake poinsettias sitting around collecting dust. The little villages everywhere have burned out lights that I fixed for the first couple of weeks but now I don’t care.

But the thought of collecting all this menagerie and trying to get it back into the Christmas tubs is really depressing. I won’t throw anything away, and I get a little bit of new stuff each year, so the laws of physics say those tubs aren’t going to hold everything. I have to rearrange and reposition ad infinitum.

I’ve probably made you sad, too, with my tales of woe. Good. Misery loves company, and I’m in no mood to be cheerful. My daughter and I pulled all the ornaments off the tree, getting pricked continually by needles so dry they felt like syringes. They broke off and fell to the floor in little green waterfalls. I tried to keep the tree wet but let a day go by without watering it, and when I got on my hands and knees the next day to pour water in, I discovered that the poor tree had sucked up every drop of water and the butt of the tree had sealed itself up so it couldn’t drink anymore. You have to keep a juicy tree butt if you want it to stay fresh. The tree stand has been full of water ever since because the tree hasn’t drank a drop.

My house looks like Thing 1 and Thing 2 swept through here with red paintbrushes and green confetti. I dragged the tee, upright and still in the container, through the living room to the sliding glass doors and forced it, crackling and snapping, through the doorway as far as it would go so I wouldn’t spill the water in the tree stand, then tilted it so the water ran out on the patio. There is a trail of faded dry needles six feet wide and eight feet long. Plus I prepared for the dismantling of the decorations by bringing in all the red tubs. There are plenty of them sprinkled throughout the living room.

And I’m going to bed. I’ve done enough and I couldn’t possibly get all this junk put away tonight. I got a late start because I had to get to the mall and buy gifts for all those birthday people.

Is it any wonder I’m sad? But one good thing is that there weren’t many people at the mall – their good sense meant I didn’t have any lines.

I guess even the Christmas blues have a silver lining.