As the last parade float rolls on by; I am down to only a few remnants left of my holiday mood swings. Time to return to my normal consternations. Finding that perfect comfort zone somewhere between worry and dread. I'm almost there, but still continue to muse at the underbelly of the entire festive season.
My acid reflux is already beginning to gurgle knowing that my neighbor probably won't be taking down his Xmas lights until April. I don't know how he can afford his nightly electrical extravaganza. He has more lights shining than the Bellagio. A manger that rocks itself. Who thinks of these things? I don't know the neighbor very well, but I'm sure that he's a hoarder. You can tell. His trash cans never take their weekly curbside spot. You make the call. The only time that I ever have talked to him is when I asked him why he was putting up his Halloween decorations in July. He curtly smiled, and said, "I know where you live". That haunts me to this day.
Does anybody else worry about the sudden unemployment of department store Santas? We are talking about clown school dropouts. They don't understand that it is only appropriate for a three week period that children are allowed to sit on your lap. Arrests have been made in the past when Santas try to push that lap sitting envelope just a tad too far.
To make some extra money one Christmas season my Dad got employment as a department store Santa. Yeah, my 155lb. Dad. Even with pillows he looked more like Alan Alda than Kris Kringle. His worst nightmare happened when a lady from the neighborhood brought her kids to that store. Pop needed the extra money but was not about to put this Santa gig on his resume. Anonymity was a must for him. The kid sat on his lap and asked Santa for an electric train. Santa told the kid, "Hey, your old man could probably afford you a real train." The kid thought that Santa had made a good point and never recognized my Dad.
I have never had second thoughts about not putting a check into a pre-addressed envelope for my L.A. Times delivery guy. It's Xmas and I'm supposed to give $25 to a man that I have never met. I always had my suspicions about these envelopes. Did the delivery guy really get the check or was this just a scam? The name on this year's envelope was Bernardo Madoff. The address was in a gated community in Hancock Park. Like I said, I had no second thoughts.
Once again I received gift certificates to stores that I feel uncomfortable in. Best Buy. I don't know why that I feel inferior just because some salesman knows a lot about big screens. I can't help it. I do. Home Depot. You have to cross lines of Venezuelan rebels just to get into the store. I just wanted golf balls. Why can't people listen?
I could go on and on. A non-bullied twelfth grader tells a school guidance counselor that he wants to design parade floats when he graduates. He dreams of an ATM machine covered in mums rolling down Colorado Blvd. There needs to be an intervention. Why do they even have the antiquated Rose Parade anyway? We no longer ride stage coaches or use white-out and the world continues to spin. Overdressed horses and chunky drill teams from Wisconsin. Come on.
Also, can we please stop with the family Xmas card photos. I'm sure that posing for that picture is some form of child abuse. It's worse than Toddlers and Tiaras. Plus right now there are people in warehouses throughout the land trying to improve tinsel. Freakin' tinsel!!! Elves costumes are at the cleaners. All of this is disturbing.
I must move on. Once again work on my minimal productivity. There's a whole year ahead. But first, I still have to deal with that rocking manger from across the street. Time to approach the hoarder.
No comments:
Post a Comment