Merry Christmas to all...

I hope I didn't give a false impression of myself in the last post.  I'm not the Calm Dad.  I was just so excited that I actually kept cool for once.  There are about ten thousand other times where I lost it, but there are plenty of posts to come about that stuff.  Let's talk about today.

I love Christmas.  I know, not what you'd expect from a midwestern Jew.  But some years ago, I discovered the real Spirit of Christmas.

Deep Backstory:  Ok, growing up Jewish, it's hard not to hate Christmas.  Non-stop Horrible Christmas Music (not be be confused with the good stuff, which we'll get into later).  But the really bad remakes from whoever is the pop sensation of the moment.  Santa.  Caroling.  All these things are completely foreign to us.  And then there's tree envy, the lost chapter of Freud's last book.  And you know the whole Santa thing is bullshit from the get-go, so you're not into that.  What Christmas means for Jews is the movies and Chinese food.  Along with all the other Jewish families in your city doing the exact same thing.  So there's something very anti-Christmas that's deeply rooted in my past.

Okay, so it's about seven years ago, and I go back east with The Wife, who's only The Girlfriend at this point, but we're back in Jersey in December.  Lots of family close by, some flew in.  Picture a roaring fireplace.  Cozy sweaters.  Two feet of snow.  And some unexpected treats:  The first being eggnog.  Not the gelatinous, funky, gag-inspiring stuff you get from the store.  No way.  This is the real stuff.  Home made.  With lots of good whisky and a healthy shot of Cognac.  Left outside to keep cold, topped with freshly grated nutmeg.  So sweet, so warm, it's like sitting on the couch with your favorite uncle on one side and the golden retriever you always wanted but never got on the other, while the plaid afghan blanket keeps you warm and the fire keeps you warmer.  You are transported to a Norman Rockwell painting.  The other unexpected treat, good, no, great Christmas Music.  John Gary.  Go look him up on iTunes right now.  Or Ella Fitzgerald.  People who knew what they were doing.  Nat King Cole.  Why don't the radio stations play that stuff on the holiday?  And then, Santa came.

All the kids were there, when suddenly, there's Santa (uncle John) in a great Santa suit, complete with beard and glasses and sack of presents.  Of course, the youngest one instantly burst into tears and ran screaming towards her mother.  But the other kids, the little ones, were so filled with awe and wonder, you'd have to be made of stone or a member of the Taliban not to be moved by it.  Presents were handed out, from the Man himself.  And everyone goes along with it, especially the ten and eleven and twelve year olds, because even though they know it's Uncle John, they want it to be Santa for the younger kids for as long as possible.  It was a magical moment, and a magical Christmas.  Finally I get it.  That's what everyone was talking about.  Now I see why it's a big deal.   And now, although it makes my great grandmother roll in her grave back in Minsk, I love making a big deal out of Christmas.  I love shopping for a tree, making ornaments, making eggnog from that every same recipe, knocking myself making home made yodels (picture to come) even though it takes four hours, especially when you fuck up the recipe and have to make it over again.  I love a house full of people for Christmas dinner.  I love watching Samantha come down the stairs Christmas morning, and that look of absolute joy and wonder at the mountain of presents under the tree (ah, the joy of having only one).  I love it like I never thought I could. And I hope you do too.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.