Gloomy gray day here. The kind of day that makes you want to curl up with a good book next to the tree with a warm cup of tea (or, because it’s still unseasonably warm here – a diet Pepsi). The kind of day that was made for napping.
But, alas, I’m a working stiff so here I sit…um…blogging. Okay – so it’s our slow time of year but it’s a well deserved break. We only have about six weeks of slow time and the rest of the year is a full court press so you know…don’t judge.
Boxes have begun arriving at my home and with no time to wrap I’m running out of hiding places. I’ll figure it out, I always do. This is, after all, my season. The season when all of my, um, unique talents are taken out, dusted off and used.
For example. I am the product of a pathological liar. As I’ve stated before, my mother truly could not help herself, she simply could not tell the truth. She had begun to realize it at the end of her life and would actually stop, mid-sentence, and say, “I don’t know why I just said that…it’s completely not true.” I’m not pathological but I do have the gift of being able to lie and make people believe ANYTHING. I, however, choose to use my power for good.
Christmas is one of those times. Any other time of the year I abhor an untruth. I have been known to say nothing rather than let a falsehood slip from my mouth. Don’t get me wrong, I do tell the occasional fib to spare feelings or, gasp, to avoid unnecessary confrontation (but for the life of me I can’t think of a single example right now). Just know that I am no saint and have been known to dance like Ginger Rogers around the truth and sometimes even stomp right on the sucker.
But at Christmas? That’s when I really shine.
Kids: Mommy, why don’t you and daddy get any gifts for Christmas?
Me: Because after parents have children Santa knows there is nothing he could ever bring them that would be as wonderful so he doesn’t even try.
Kids: Mommy, why do we have to buy toys for the poor kids? Doesn’t Santa come to their houses?
Me: Of course he does. We buy these toys so that the parents have something to give their children on Christmas morning. (I admit – this one always brought me to tears and had me digging a little deeper into the wallet.)
There were lots more, thought of completely on the fly, and then committed to memory for the future.
Back to the boxes.
For years boxes have been arriving at my house. In the early days of internet shopping, not all company’s were savvy enough to put that huge Rescue Heroes Command Center into a plain cardboard box. They just slapped a label on the damn thing and sent it to my house. In the middle of December. Really?
Kids: Mommy, is that OUR Rescue Heroes Command Center?
Me: NO! That’s for charity. I wanted to make sure they got something they would like. (Then I had to put it in the car and pretend to take it “somewhere”.)
Kids: Mommy, are those scooters for us? You said we couldn’t have them because we’d get hurt.
Me: Of course not! Those are going to charity. You are not getting scooters. You’ll hurt yourself.
Kids: So, um, mom. Why is it okay to hurt the poor kids?
Me: They’re much older than you. They have promised they’ll be more careful.
And on and on and on.
Yesterday, a package arrived from Home Depot. Earphones for my theatre tech son from Ryobi that will block the noise from the woodshop but allow him to hear music and voices.
And guess what? Yep…a label slapped directly on the Ryobi box.
Really Home Depot? Do you not own a calendar?
Fortunately his twin saw the box, screamed at him to turn around and not look and took the boxes into the house. Christmas was saved.
I’m telling you, this Santa shit is hard. You have to be diligent!
And a really good liar.