The Christmas Spirit…

I sometimes tell this story as the day I lost the Christmas Spirit – but some have pointed out to me that it might be more accurately represented as the day I realized I had no Christmas Spirit. That might be true. I think we’ll split the difference and say – it was the day I ran out of Christmas Spirit.  It seems like it can be a meter that fluxes…and occasionally bottoms out.

I had been shopping at Fashion Island.  A mall in the Newport Beach area.  With Ian.  Despite what he might say, he really loves those ultra-chic malls.  I had a made a bet on the 49ers beating the Falcons.  The 49ers were playing for home field advantage over the Cowboys in the playoffs, while the Falcons were playing just to get into the playoffs. Word was that the Falcons had all their equipment packed up already, giving up on their season.

Robert Ho, longtime friend of the family and I had been in Vegas days earlier. He was convinced that the 49ers were a lock. He went on for days about it.  He was betting everything on the game. He borrowed my last few bucks to bet on the game too.  And at that moment, without any money on me, I decided he was right. So I went with a cash advance on a credit card and bet on the game too.  We were going to fly back to Vegas to collect on the tickets – they were so ripe.

Well, Ian and I could catch some of the game on the TVs around the mall. The 49ers were sucking it up big time.  There was going to be no flight back to Vegas. The Falcons were going to make the playoffs.  I rationalized it as by me betting on the 49ers and jinxing them, I was actually getting home field advantage for my Cowboys. Who went on to win the Superbowl that year.  A true fan does what he can.

Anyway – things were looking sour for the 49ers but looking up for me as we stumbled into a specialty Hawaiian shirt store.  I got everyone a shirt.  Not all the same shirt pattern – that’d be cheesey.  Everyone got shirts specific for them. I even got one for myself. A nice cocktail shirt. Marco still even wears his occasionally, when he’s planning on getting drunk enough. Yes, it has seen the Mist bar.

The boxes all looked nice under the tree.

That Christmas, my sister brought home  a boyfriend. He even dropped a few gifts under the tree. Marco and I were caught by surprise. We’re used to hitting Santa Monica Place on Christmas Eve and panic shopping, but I think this time, even they were already closed. So we deliberated for a while…then went with what seemed to be our only choice. He was about my size. I could wrap my shirt up for him and we’d just hope he didn’t notice that it wasn’t in the same box as everyone else’s.

He didn’t notice. And he seemed to like the shirt more or less.  Then I got my gift. I was wondering how much he knew about me to give me a gift – and what it would be like.  I should have thought about that earlier.  It was a used paperback book. The Bachelor’s Gourmet Microwave Cookbook.

Okay. Granted, I was living in Indiana alone. But I don’t cook. And I don’t want to cook. And I didn’t have a microwave. And I didn’t even want a microwave. I was comfortable knowing that Marie Callender’s country fried chicken dinners are 100x better cooked in the oven. It just takes 30 minutes of foresight.  It is well worth it.  But anyway – the cookbook – so okay, given all those things, I can see how it could be a funny little gift.

Just no one told me we were giving out gag gifts this time.  Ha ha. Hee hee. Yeah, we’re all smiles, especially in our new shirts…it was at this point, that having divorced parents came in handy. I thought it would have paid off much earlier, as my soccer teammates would have parents that would get in bidding wars for them after the games – we’ll get hamburgers; we’ll get hamburgers and ice cream; we’ll get hamburgers, ice cream, and go on a toy shopping spree; we’ll get hamburgers, ice cream and go on a toy shopping spree at Disneyland!  I was told I should be glad my parents picked me up and weren’t more than 20 minutes late.

But this time, this one time, the divorced parents came in handy, cause I had had enough of this Christmas and needed another one. I went over to my father’s, vented a bit, and tried not to notice how good the Hawaiian shirt looked on him.  Since then, Christmas hasn’t been the same. It might be getting better, with Sal now and the way it is changing our family, so I’m hopeful.

But I found out today, I’m going to need a little advance on the Christmas Spirit.  Cause I’m gonna have to start writing Santa some letters.  See,  these big wheels for adults that I’ve had my eye on for a while, they’re getting discontinued. They already are for the most part. Just that the green machine, the green machine that I’ve wanted for 30 years – has got a sliver of chance – since it’s only out of stock instead of discontinued. I’ve emailed them. They say that they might get some in before Thanksgiving.  They might.

Now, I don’t know who I need to write for Thanksgiving prayers, so that’s why I’m going all the way to Santa.  If it comes early, it’ll be the Thanksgiving I give the most Thanks at.  If it’s still got some hope, it’ll be the Thanksgiving I give thanks for having a Santa I could write to.  If it comes at all, I think my superficial Christmas Spirit will be fully charged. 

One can hope huh?

Editor’s note: While writing the title, I didn’t use an ‘h’. I’m pretty much used to writing Chris with an ‘h’ – since I rarely get myself and others confused. But I missed this one. And it reminded me of a editing dilemma I had once when I needed to write down “Chris” when it was heard one way, but said another.  Which, when I looked it up to see which way I went, made me realize, I need to be careful at tomorrow night’s dinner, when we go to eat at some fancy schmancy place.