|Blogging Like I've Never Blogged Before|
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
Christmas. Where are the Christmas stories I should be telling you today?
As a child, I was allergic to everything. Chocolate, peanut butter, dogs, cats, and yes, even Christmas trees. So not only was my stocking filled with crap candy, but I was allergic to the tree. Of course, no one realized this until about the ninth Christmas in a row where I couldn't breathe. We always just chalked it up to the dog. But then the dog died, and I would still get sick.
Yes, we had a dog. He was there first, so there was no way we could get rid of him. Plus, he was a great dog. He was perfect in every way, except for his ability (or inability) to dodge oncoming traffic.
I became acclimated to the dog. Eventually, the allergies weren't so bad. But the tree would bring out the worst in me. Every Christmas morning, I'd be wheezing and sneezing. Opening a gift, take a hit off of the inhaler. Gift, inhaler. Gift, inhaler. It went like that.
Eventually we got the fake tree. One of those fake trees that doesn't look like a real Christmas tree. The needles were too long and too green. It was missing that little bit of grey. You know what I mean? Real trees have something of a grey tint to them.
Anyway, since I was always ill for the Real Tree Christmases, those are my thickest memories. I'm finding this really sad that I can't think of better Christmas stories. I remember certain things about Christmas time that made me happy. Driving home from church on Christmas Eve with my family, looking for Rudolph's nose. But then, of course, that whole thing turned out to be a damn lie. But those were the most fun car rides with my family. Done with church, now the fun part can begin. Fifteen minutes in the car of complete excitement, looking at radio towers with the red flashing light, knowing that had to be Santa. It was one of the few times in the backseat of the car where my sisters and I wouldn't fight over who was taking up too much of the seat.
I guess that's my magical Christmas memory. Here's a new one to add to the list:
As I was walking through the Toys R Us in Union Square last night, which looked like it was raped by the Ghost of Christmas Presents, I heard a mother, who wasn't sure what to buy her son for Christmas say, "Maybe I'll just buy him a skateboard. Watch him break his ass."
I think my mom said the same thing when she bought me my first skateboard.