Careful what I wish for

What I'd give for a white Christmas. As a Californian, I yearn to awaken on Christmas morning with snow covering every visible surface. What a dream.
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Or not...

Of surprises and beagles

Years ago when my kids were little, I had a special place to hide Christmas gifts – my closet. What a joke that turned out to be. Everyone knew where my hidey place was and, unbeknownst to me, the little beggars would sneak in there and see what they were getting. God, I look back on that and remain impressed at their finely honed acting skills. “Oh, it’s JUST what I wanted,” my little spawns would gush.

I thought those sneaky peaky days were over. They’re all grown up and, presumably, willing to not fake their surprise. However, no one prepared me for this nosey beagle my son brought home from the Army. I’ve adopted her as my unreliable secretary, thinking she could earn her designer gin-laced kibble bits and perch on my messy desk. She sucks at secretarial work, but excels at smelling out anything you’d rather be kept a secret.

Not only did she drag down the new jacket I’d bought for my daughter, but she hauled out the new sleeping bag and three warmie snuggly blankets I got yesterday. It’s not enough that she gets into my daughter’s room and bags her underwear (which is really overpriced butt floss) and stuffs it into the couch. My aged auntie nearly stroked out when she sat on our couch the other day and found three pair of butt floss in the cushions. “Oh my stars!” Gah…I can still hear her shock ringing in my ears.

So now the beagle has destroyed my surprisies for my kids and taken years off my auntie's life expectancy. But you know what? I get the last laugh. I bought the beagle dog training lessons and a stay at the Betty Ford Clinic.

Maybe I'll just order online

We spent Thanksgiving week down in Palm Springs, where my parents live. While we were there, we watched the local news in horror as they described how two young women got into a shouting match at the very local Toys 'R Us. As one is wont to do; their male companions decided to sort things out by pulling out their guns and shooting each other. Both died. IN THE MIDDLE OF FREAKING TOYS 'R US.

In Long Island, a Wal-Mart employee was trampled to death early Friday morning as he opened the doors to the store to allow customers. They were so excited to begin their shopping, that they mowed him down. As he fought for breath, people looked down at the floor and simply stepped over him to get to their destination.

Holy Christ. Is this what we've become? We can't Christmas shop because we face being trampled or shot? People are already cranky enough at this time of year; too many gifts to buy and too little money with which to do it. I remember reading stories last year about women getting into fights over a toy. Over a freaking, goddamned toy.

I haven't even started my shopping because I traditionally like to wait until shopper angst hits its apex and threatens to go nuclear. But as I sprout more gray hairs, I feel the tugs of mortality a bit more. Maybe the thrill of making the Big Buy is less important than simply surviving the holidays without losing a vital organ or my life. Whatever my previous motivations, I'm humbled that there are three fewer people who will celebrate Christmas because our sense of humanity took a back seat.

Maybe it's time to forgo the usual holiday trappings and go suck up some mountain air and hug a few trees.