Rasmenia

I am not going to wish you a Merry Christmas. I am not going to wish you Happy Holidays, a Happy New Year, or even Happy Ass Slap from an Expensive Hooker. No matter what we say anymore, someone’s out there to complain. So, I won’t offer you Xmas cheer, a Happy Hanukkah,  Joyeux Noël, Feliz Navidad or a Happy Solstice.

I wish you more than this. So much more.

When someone says to you: Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Have a nice Tuesday or a bitchin’ Saturnalia, I wish you the clear-sightedness to see when another human is saying something just to be kind, affable & cheerful. I wish you enough common decency to choke down your pettiness, smile & respond in your own kind, affable & cheerful way. I hope you’ll be reasonable enough to comprehend how one person phrases something shouldn’t diminish your joy; that most battles never need to be fought & that being offended is a meaningless thing.

I hope that in the coming year, you’ll have at least one pair of really comfortable shoes & that you’ll wear them on many long walks outdoors, with the sun and wind on your cheeks while holding hands with someone you really like holding hands with.

I hope that this year will be the year you get a grip on the fact that you will never get any free shit from anyone simply by liking & sharing photos of jewelry or lottery tickets on Facebook.

I’m wishing very hard that this year will be the one where you start saying “twenty-thirteen” instead of “two-thousand-thirteen.”

In the new year to come, I hope you will go to a doctor, or visit a drugstore when you are sick instead of asking me to pray for you. If you are a believer, then believe, but please… believe that God(s) work through people. This year, when a catastrophic event occurs (& it will), I hope you will donate your time, food or money rather than making public announcements informing the rest of us that you are sitting on the couch praying for the grieving, wounded & hungry.

I hope that when you do feel the need to pray, you will pray to your god(s) rather than Facebook. (Matthew 6:6, anyone?) I will do my part by not making you listen to me talking on the phone. Yes. It is the same thing.

I wish that this year, you’ll tell someone a story. A happy story. A painful story. Any story at all. The story you’ve never told, but always wanted to. That story you’ve kept stuffed down deep inside you like a dirty, embarrassing secret. Write it down. Tell it in a song or a painting. Whisper it to the person next to you. I wish you the courage to give someone that piece of you.

May you develop an awareness of how deranged you sound when referring to yourself not only in the third person, but as “mommy” to other adults & may you keep this bizarre habit among the sewing circle of mommy bloggers who find this to be normal & healthy. The rest of us are not toddlers. You are not our “mommy.”

This year, I hope none of you will have to listen to any ignorant old white men publicly going on about rape. But, if you do, I hope a massive army of angry vaginas finds a way to shut that whole thing down.

I wish you the pure, unconditional love that only comes from a special bond with a creature that isn’t human. Spooning with a big dog & rolling around with them on the carpet. Cradling a purring cat while sharing a warm rotisserie chicken. Holding hands with a monkey.

I wish that when you check your Twitter feed, you will be informed & amused; that you will engage in entertaining & interesting exchanges with people all over the world instead of being spammed, trolled, or shouted at to buy something, or have to sift through an endless stream of retweeted fragments of someone else’s book reviews.

I truly hope that in the coming year, you learn that Internet memes & macros will give no one the impression you are witty, informative, funny or entertaining. These things are to comedy & communication what lips, hooves & assholes smooshed together & stuffed in packages marked “bologna” are to kobe beef.

May you find yourself able to look at two people, & truly see them… the emotion in their eyes as they gaze at one another & only see the love that one person can for another instead of two men, two women & the limitations of your own ignorance.

May you finally come to the understanding that other countries & other people are not failed attempts at being you; everyone does not want what you want, or what you have. In fact, most people probably don’t. Try to be happy knowing you’re a successful attempt at being you & everyone else is quite successful at not being you.

In this new year, I wish that you will take a few goddamn seconds to think about #thirdworldproblems before making #firstworldproblems jokes because – & someone needs to tell you this – you are not funny. You might even be an asshole.

I hope you will better yourself. Learn a new language or an instrument that you’ve never touched before. Study a craft unknown to you. Try a strange new food before saying you don’t like it.

I hope whenever someone says to you that you can’t do a thing, you find yourself able to laugh at them, then do that thing better than either one of you had imagined.

I hope you’ll stop worrying about your thighs. You look fine.

May you remember in this year to come & all the years to follow that when you choose a side in a war & root for them to win, that these aren’t sports teams. These are real people who feel pain & laughter just as you do… that when you pray for one side in a war to be victorious, you pray for others to suffer in torment, to bleed, to cry screams of grief & agony. You pray for them to die.

I wish for you to be moved to tears by a piece of music, shaken by someone’s story of survival & punched in the gut by another’s suffering. I wish you tears of empathy.

I wish you anger. Rage. Enough dissatisfaction to pull your ass up out of your chair & throw you into something constructive besides pissing & moaning about the unfairness of the world.

I wish you all this… & so much more.

“Christmas is doing a little something extra for someone.”  – Charles M. Schulz

“What kind of Christmas present would Jesus ask Santa for?” – Salman Rushdie, Fury

*

When I was a tiny, brand-new person, I knew what it felt like to be overwhelmed by music, cookies & twinkling lights. I knew the absolute joy that can only come from a tiny, brand-new person’s sense of wonder when presented with stories & images of magical elves, animals & places.

I knew Christmas magic. It was nothing less than magic.

Like any kid, I got excited about presents. But, wasn’t the anticipation & surprise always more fun than the actual object wrapped up inside all of that pretty paper?

I consider myself lucky that for the first few years of my life, I had grandparents who I always spent the holiday with & that they got more excited about Christmas than anyone I’ve ever met since. There was always an enormous tree, standing upon a big platform with an entire model town built on it… complete with the model train that would chug by, doing laps around the tree. There were cookies shaped like Santa Claus’ head, homemade candy & plenty of holiday music that my grandfather & I would yowl along to.

But… that was another time. The grandparents, the little model town & train are all gone. I am no longer a tiny, brand-new person, but am a big, grown-up person who no longer believes in elves, Santa Claus or that December 25th is Jesus’ birthday.

I am a big, grown-up person who knows that human beings do all of the rotten, terrible things in the world, not fantastic creatures & that it’s other human beings who do the few good things in the world, not mythical characters from stories that were written a long time ago.

Now, when Christmas rolls around, I am no longer overwhelmed by music, cookies & twinkling lights, but am beaten down by annoyance & loathing as I watch other big, supposedly grown-up people bickering about their imagined “War on Christmas.” I’m disgusted with the absurdity of holiday shopping – whether pepper spray is or isn’t involved. I’m saddened & sickened by how much I hear the word “want” for the last 2 months of the year. He wants she wants they want I want WANT WANT. “I want” seems to be said more than “I’m giving”. (Here’s the thing: if you say “want” more than “give” around the holidays, then you have failed at Christmas. You are doing it wrong.)

Over the years, I’ve morphed from being tiny & brand new to the jaded Scrooge I am now. I’ve been watching not only the dipshittery mentioned above, but also festive occasions where I have given a Christmas present to someone, only to have it insulted right to my face. (It wasn’t EXACTLY what they WANTED.) I have had my religious beliefs (& lack thereof) insulted & condescended to. Gifts I’ve given have been regifted back to me a year later.

What I’m getting at is, when I’ve seen the worst side of people, it’s usually been at Christmas.

Earlier this year, Olivier & I decided we weren’t going to be a part of this nonsense. We would not exchange gifts with each other. Instead, we decided to run away. We spent a few months tossing vacation ideas at one another.

“We could go to an island,” he said, scratching his beard. “We could be lazy & boozy. Cabana style.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t want to be summer. I still want to be winter. We could take a train to Switzerland & eat lots of fondue.”

“Uh. I dunno. We’ll think about it,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

This went on for months. Until we no longer had plenty of time. We could stay home, we decided, but really… that would just feel shitty. It was November. Holiday Hell was descending upon us.

Then on one average & unspecial Sunday afternoon, I asked my husband, “Remember when you were a tiny kid, how magic Christmas was, before the preaching, bitching & the wanting?”

“Yeah.” Olivier nodded. “It was. It was exciting & happy. It felt great. But, now… now it’s just fucked – nothing but resentment & stress.”

I thought about it for a few minutes, then I turned to my husband. “I know what we should do for Christmas.”

The answer was so obvious, we couldn’t believe how long it took us to see it.

We skipped the gifts, the tree & the decorations. We tried our best to avoid anyone who pissed & moaned about whether you should say “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays”. We ignored everyone who wanted to lecture about “keeping Christ in Christmas” & closed our ears to talk of wanting & shopping. These are the people who suck the magic out of Christmas.

Instead, we contacted some local charities & asked them if we could lend a hand. We ended up working with Les petits frères des Pauvres (The Little Brothers of the Poor).

You may have already heard of it, but for those of you who haven’t, Les petits frères is an international non-profit that was founded here in France in 1946. They focus on aiding the elderly who may be ill, lonely or impoverished.

Our task was to fetch two elderly ladies from their homes on Christmas morning & take them to a restaurant where all of the volunteers & guests would share a repas de Noël.

We chatted on the way to the restaurant & after we arrived, we helped other volunteers to get several more guests inside & seated at their tables.

After everyone was settled, we had a nice meal with lamb, smoked salmon, red wine & brie. We listened to interesting stories. We joked & laughed & danced. We clapped & hooted as we watched dozens of elderly men & women in Santa hats dancing, singing & laughing like children.

I looked over at Olivier, who had been smiling all day… & I realized I’d had a silly grin on my face, too. I glanced over at two ladies, one of them 100 years old… the other, 106. I thought of what it might be like to live that long & I realized… I’m still just a brand-new person by comparison.

Standing there, with a goofy grin on my face, clapping my hands among all of that joy & merriment, I suddenly thought of how magical Christmas used to be & all of a sudden, it was again.

Later, on our way home, after we had delivered our two new friends safely to their respective homes, Olivier & I decided that we would be volunteering with Les petits frères again in the future.

If any of you are interested in volunteering with Les Petits Frères, click on the link below. They are in 8 different countries, so you may find them in your area.

“Want to keep Christ in Christmas? Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, forgive the guilty, welcome the unwanted, care for the ill, love your enemies, and do unto others as you would have done unto you.”  – Steve Maraboli

When Olivier & I arrived at the Greyhound station in Erie, PA, we were giddy.  It was 3pm on Saturday, the day after Christmas.  We’d had a big pile of Arby’s earlier that day, so I had gotten my fix after craving their delicious, cheddary slop for the past 2 years.  We were leaving behind the stress of a Festivus gone bad & were looking forward to a week at home in Colorado.

We had our bus tickets, 200 lbs. of luggage & a box of chocolate donuts.  We were ready to voyage across the country for the next day & a half.  We would have to change buses several times, but still… it was only a day & a half.

A day & a half.  No sweat.

Cozy.

The first thing that we figured out was that there was no dicking around when it was time to board the bus.  If you’re traveling with someone, it’s next to impossible to find 2 seats together.  Most people are traveling alone.  They all want a window seat & will not move if they see that it would allow a couple to sit together.

After the first bus ride from Erie to Cleveland, OH, we knew from then on that it was necessary to knock bodies out of our way in order to be at the head of the line.

Ok, so a day & a half of sitting in a bus & pushing strangers to the ground.  No problem.

It was around 10pm when we stopped in Columbus, OH.  We would be stuck there until 1am, waiting for the next bus to take us to St. Louis, MO.  Olivier & I were parked at a table, eating a bus station cafeteria salad when another couple sat at the table next to us.

The woman kept silent, making strange faces with her mouth.  I soon realized it was because she had no teeth.  Her husband was a short, squashy little man who would jabber at anyone within a ten-foot radius should they happen to make eye contact.  They carried black plastic garbage bags for luggage.  He turned to younger couple seated at a nearby table.

“Where you guys headin’ to?”

“Uh… we’re going to St. Louis,” the younger guy said.

“Oh, yeah,” Squashy said.  “That’s where we’re tryin’ to get to, but the guy over there at the counter just told me that there’s all kinds of cancellations in St. Louis.  He said he could rerout me through to Texas, but me & my wife, we’re goin’ to California & I think we should just take our chances in Missouri.”

I turned to Olivier.  “Fuck me… did you hear all of that?”

Olivier nodded.  “Yeah, I heard it,” he said, getting up from the table.  “I’m going to go check it out with someone who works here, just in case that guy’s got his information mixed up.”

I drank a cup of shitty bus station coffee & watched Olivier go to the counter, nod his head a few times, rub his beard & then walk back toward me.

“Well,” he said.  “It seems that there is a bad storm in St. Louis, but it may clear up.  We just need to get on this bus & not worry about anything until we get there.”

No problem.  We knocked a few bodies out of the way & got into the bus.  Within an hour, I was asleep.

Like a drooling, sweating baby.

I woke up for a moment when we stopped in Indianapolis, where we picked up a couple of hippies, a Rastafarian & a French woman.  I managed to fall asleep again in spite of Squashy jabbering at full volume to anyone & everyone.

Without opening my eyes, I heard people getting on & off of the bus in Effingham, IL during a stop at McDonald’s.  Everything remained blurry until just before 7am, when we entered St. Louis.  The sun was coming up, not a trace of snow or storm clouds in sight.  I didn’t see any reason why we would be delayed here.

Now I realize that this is because I underestimated the dipshittery of Greyhound.

With 20 minutes until our bus to Denver was to depart, Olivier & I dragged our 200 lbs. of luggage through the bus station.  With our eyes half closed, we blasted anyone who stood in our way with morning breath & ran over their feet with our heavy wheelie suitcases.

An hour later, we were still standing in line with all of the other chumps trying to get to Denver.  A stout, bored looking woman in a Greyhound uniform walked over to us.  She leaned over & grabbed the address tag on my suitcase.

“Where you all going?”  She read the tag.  “Huh.  Denver.  Well, you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

This was how they informed us that our bus had been canceled.  She walked away without giving anyone any more information than this.  It was easy to see why Greyhound has so many consumer complaints.  While there hadn’t been any snow when we arrived in St. Louis, there was now a thin layer of fluffy white flakes on the ground.

We ate rubbery cafeteria bagels while listening to the hippies explain where they were going.  “Oh, yeah, man… the Dead is playing in California, man… you really should go sometime.  It’s not about the music, you know… it’s about the love, man, the LOVE.  Everyone’s dancing & you can just feel the spirit of the LOVE all around you… it’s magical, man… magical.”

On the TVs hanging above us, a horrible movie with Billy Bob Thornton was playing.  A skinny man that looked like Iggy Pop in a baseball cap was walking from one end of the station to the other, talking on his cell phone & rallying passengers together in an attempt to… well, I don’t know what.  I couldn’t figure it out.

“He’s just the Layover Guy,” Olivier said.  “There’s always that guy during the layover that has to make friends with everyone.  In Columbus, it was Squashy.  Now we’ve got Iggy.”

“Better him than the hippies,” I said.  “Wonder what the penalty is in St. Louis if I were to go over there & bludgeon one of them, let them feel my LOVE.”

Olivier shrugged.  “Dunno.  They probably make you stay in the fucking Greyhound station watching bad movies.”

This is what you get for beating hippies, asshole.

Instead of leaving for Denver at 7:20am, we left for Tulsa, OK at 11:30am.  The reason that we were given for this detour was… Kansas.  At all costs, we had to avoid Kansas.  No one explained why, so I’m guessing that it was pretty bad.  I would advise you, too, to STAY THE FUCK OUT OF KANSAS.

There were only about 20 people left in the bus station, all of us stranded, trying to get to Denver.  Happily, we all piled into the bus bound for Tulsa.  It was out of the way, but everyone was glad just to be out of the bus station.

The woman driving the bus didn’t fuck around.  She made it clear that she wasn’t supposed to be working that day & that she was in a hurry to make the 8-hour drive to Tulsa.  No one disagreed.  No one complained.

We sat in the bus, happy to be going anywhere while we noshed on stale chocolate donuts.  Olivier & I spent a lot of time watching our fellow passengers.  Iggy Pop the Layover Guy was busy knitting, which explained why he appeared to be wearing a poncho that looked like a grandma afghan.  The hippies were busy trying to convert Rasta Man to the Temple of the Grateful Dead.  A guy who looked like Eric Estrada sat quietly, looking as though he was about to get all stabby on the next person that spoke to him.  An enormous black man from Tennessee was shouting at someone on the phone in what sounded to be complete gibberish.  His chubby daughter traveled from seat to seat, staring at snacking passengers until they became uncomfortable enough to shoo her away.  A 20-something guy with a laptop & Hari Krishna hair was telling a woman what a seasoned Greyhound traveler he was now that he’d gone across the country 6 times & had only had his shit stolen once.

“You know,” I said.  “I feel a little like I’m in a rolling, live-action version of that ‘People of Wal-Mart‘ site.”

“Yeah, it is kind of like that,” Olivier said, laughing.  “Bus travel is colorful.  At least the weather is clear here, so we’ll be in Denver tomorrow morning.”

We arrived in Tulsa at 8pm.  Our driver informed us that we would have 20 minutes to take a break & change drivers.  Leaving the bus running outside, she quickly disappeared.

30 minutes later, a little man in a Greyhound uniform & a Santa Claus hat informed us that there never was another driver, that there was no one available to drive us out of Tulsa.  The gist is, St. Louis had 20 people to get rid of, so they took us to Tulsa & ditched us there.

Olivier & I stood at the door of the bus station next to Erik Estrada, Iggy Pop & the hippies as we all pressed our faces to the glass & stared longingly at our empty bus, engine still running, ready to go nowhere.