Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

x-mas

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When was it that i learned how to tuck the corners in so deftly? This is the first year that i’ve been good enough to warrant the question; the first time that i haven’t hollered frantically for Erika to hold down the folds for me while i taped them. I remember how i used to do it not so long ago, wrapping paper around and around a box and then practically fashioning a bow out of scotch tape to hold it all down. I hated wrapping, and i hated wrapped presented. I told my mother not to bother; “Why use all that time and paper,” i said, “just so i can rip it open?”

When did i start to thrill in surprise? High school’s last Christmas Anastasia and i sat on her floor with empty shoe-boxes and packages of tissue paper trying to decide how to best obscure our killer compact discs. I taped mine down in a goloshes box and covered it with layers of tissue while she created a protective exoskelton to protect the tell-tale shape of her jewel case. Still that mass of paper, still that scotch tape bow, but i understood something about the thrill of surprise; it wasn’t enough just to buy, but to keep guessing until the last possible second.

When did i make it my own? Last Christmas i got a few excellent gifts, but i was more intent on giving. Elise helped me hunt down a wonderful list of bottle stops, DVD players, chess sets, Dr. Seuss Books, and Guiness playing cards in a whirlwind weekend while i slowly amassed her own pile of presents solo. I shopped fearlessly into late December not because i was fearless, but because i was no longer celebrating the same holiday as the people in the line in front of me. When all was said and done i had re-charged half of my credit card, but i was too happy doing it to stop. Christmas had finally stopped being a season, or an obligation — it was an excuse to give something to some of the people that i loved the most.

I almost forgot that this year, creating invisible, impractical, self-imposed timelines and deadlines for myself. Yet, as i lined up the pattern on the wrapping paper so perfectly a few minutes ago, as i cut out my own inventive little gift tags and wrote in the cards, i realized that i have come all the way around: from understanding the joy of surprise, to understanding the joy of the season, to understanding the joy of creating the surprise.

I will never submit myself to the Christmas celebrated by the people i stand in line with at the cash register. It isn’t about their idea, or my idea, or the cash register. It’s about liking the giving so much that you hardly care about what you get in return. It’s about liking it so much that you let it creep into March and September, buying things just because, so that when you look down your list sometimes you can say “i already gave them the perfect gift.”

But, it isn’t about my idea, and you’re giving me an excellent gift right now. Here’s to hoping your ideas are working out just as perfectly.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/12/107216091026681200/

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As i stepped out of my room this morning i was reminded of Christmas; how when i was little i would always wake up before my mother to that strange stillness of the outside world, house staffed only by the tree awaiting me expectantly with gifts below.

Here, of course, it is the opposite — i wake up late to emerge into the stillness of all of my roommates gone to class or to work, and there is nothing waiting for me at all in their absence. It still feels like Christmas morning, though, so silent up here in the attic, especially with the glow of the lights Gina and i strung across the ceiling last December.

Once when i was little i woke up before my mother and, upon descending our creaky wooden stairs into the still air of our parlor, opened all of my gifts without waiting for her. I simply didn’t understand why she would care to see me open them — she knew what was inside them all already.

When she finally came down the stairs I couldn’t seem to do anything to stop her from crying, and all I kept saying was “i’ll put them back … you can take them back,” not understanding that what she was upset about wasn’t missing the act of me opening them, but my thrill at doing so.

I always feel like i’m one Christmas behind because of that year, stuck somehow out of synch — a year away from my family and friends as they open their gifts. I always react as hugely as i can to gifts i am given, and give to others with vigor, hoping that somehow my excitement will bridge the divide.

Maybe this is why my still apartment can remind me of Christmas, whereas mall Santas and candy canes and blow-up lawn ornaments and holiday sales only remind me of spoiled children who don’t get what Christmas is supposed to be about, just what it has become.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/12/107090342461182805/

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My mother just didn’t understand when i asked for headphones. I wasn’t just asking for headphones, i was asking for serious audio-observance equipment that could double as earmuffs on a cold winter’s day. She got me a pair of petite Sony’s that can be easily compacted and placed into one’s pocketbook.

Right. That’s what i said.

So, today we headed out to Best Buy, second only to Kohl’s in it’s sick ability to drain my pocket of all available green-backs (and, conveniently, we had just come from Kohl’s).

The resulting pair of earphones the size of hamsters (and requisite fistful of cd’s) are highly appropriate; when i have them on i can’t hear anything else happening in the room, even if i don’t have any music playing. Now, that’s a serious pair of headphones.

Honestly, the first person to market ear-muffs that double as headphones will make an absolute fortune.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/12/8202287/

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My mother, ever the intrepid homemaker upon the once-a-year occasion that finds me in our house for three consecutive days, rose with dawn this morning to acquire the last few items on our Italian Christmas Grocery List. We do not make ham. We do not eat turkey. For us, Christmas is all about a inordinately large pot of gravy, some sort of homemade pasta, and upwards of a dozen eggs worth of scappels. However, since i left for school, Christmas has also been the chance for the two of us to collectively gorge ourselves on high-cholesterol Italian desserts. This was the reason Elaine was out of the house just after eight this morning.


While i am a cheesecake addict through and through, my mother tends to veer more towards pastries and chocolates. This year she decided that my jumbo-cheesecake would get the axe in favour of an equally massive tiramisu, and the bakery informed her that she’d have to arrive “pretty early” to secure a nummy liquor-soaked cake for herself. They literally told her that people would be lined up around the block before the subway started running; she took it with a grain of salt and got in the car during the back half of Good Morning America.


8:25 — “Hey, it’s me… i can’t believe you actually woke up this early. … Whatever. Listen, i’m just swinging by the pastry place and running some quick errands. … Yeah, i’ll be at your apartment by ten.”


Much to my mother’s chagrin (and my endless amusement), the line at Isgro’s was around the block … not only around the block, but nearly motionless in a dead-pan imitation of its ticket-line cousin i endured while flying last week.


9:30 — “Peter, hey, it’s me … i’ve been in line for about an hour. … You should see it, it’s a madhouse … I’ll call you before i come to pick you up. … Yeah, i should be there around ten-thirty.”

And, not only was this line packed to the gills with a cheery assortment of dietary die-hard degos who had the presence of mind to bring along folding chairs and thermoses, but it was being patrolled by a Mr. and Mrs. Claus — her with pastry samples, and him with a tray of Amaretto in tiny disposable shot-glasses. Furthermore, the local news was interviewing people up and down the line, kindly declining several offers of liquid warmth … via Mr. Claus as well as the crowd at large (who apparently came equipped). Did i mention it was about 43 degrees outside?


10:35 — “Um, Peter, it’s me … Yes, i’m still in line. … No, i can’t even see the doors from here. Santa keeps asking me if i’d like a drink. … Oh, no, I should be in by eleven.”

Upon her finally arriving (let’s call it @ twelvish) my mother had bought half our housecat’s weight in Italian desserts, and she blithely informed me that she was going to be on the noon and five-o’clock news, the latter of which she was taping at that very moment.


I skipped over the bit where i hid all of the liquor in my apartment so my grandmother could come up and see it (“Jesus, do you have enough steps in this place? I swear, i’d have a heart attack with all these goddamned steps.”), and also the bit where i got zero sleep to finish my mother’s freaking Christmas present that she had better appreciate.

Does anybody rememer last Christmas? I seem to remember it being cuter than this…

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/12/8174145/