I know Susannah, give them a break on the holiest of holidays.
I just hauled out my ancient electric coffee pot with the cord wrapped in gaffer’s tape about to make the worst cup of coffee ever.
How do I know? Trust me. When it comes to self-service, I’m not a willing participant.
The only good news is the panattoni I have wrapped in cellophane the gourmet grocer gave me. Italian fruitcake with raisins laced with anisette I’ll toast with gobs of butter.
Like Scrooge, I’m thinking back to Christmas past plucking one out of the dust.
I was 3, weeping by the Christmas tree naked, except for a little hankie covering my private parts. My mother thought taking a picture of me looking like a little nymph would be oh so cute, when it should have put me right into therapy, just by way of preschool.
My dad, drafted to take it, could hardly look at me. Fashion oriented even then, my mother said, if I cooperated, I could wear my new, pink Doctor Denton pajamas with the feet before Christmas morning.
I made the deal.
So wish I had the picture, shredded long ago since I did look awfully cute, providing you ignored those tears streaming down my face.
It taught me shame at much too young an age…a stigma I carried for years that even now, leaves a tiny trail.
Another Christmas I remember was at Windows of the World at the top of the World Trade Center. I had a boyfriend named Seth who took me there for Christmas Eve where we drank Moet Chandon toasting our future. He left me a week later…New Years Eve to be exact, for an Asian model named Fawn.
Mustn’t forget the 5 I spent with the Flying Dutchman always leaving me to go be with his ex-wife and daughter igniting my abandonment syndrome like a cherry bomb.
He’d ply me with presents, fill my fridge then leave me like a dog at a kennel.
It’s safe to say, Christmas isn’t one of my all time favorite days.
The good news is, it will pass soon enough when I can shove that coffee pot back under the sink along with all my memories of Christmas past grateful for just another, ordinary day.