tedwords

This year, Corb decided to put up three Christmas trees at Green Victoria.

He says it's a tradition he learned from a former boss at his work. "You put up a Christmas tree for every year that you've been living in your house."

I frowned. "What happens when you've been living there for 30 years? That's an awful lot of trees. Wouldn't your house start to look like a forest at that point?"

Corb laughed and brushed me aside. "Oh, it doesn't have to be 30 big trees. You can have trees of all shapes and sizes. Big ones that take up a corner of the room. Or small ones that you place on an end table. But right now, we are focusing on the big trees. So, since we've been here for three years, I need to add a third tree."

So, there you go. We have three trees. One is in our kitchen, which is pictured above. It's where we place all our holiday cards. Then we have our traditional tree--the fake one we've had for years, ever since we experimented with a live tree and didn't know how the hell to get rid of it, years ago. Our traditional tree is in the living room.

And now, we have a third tree, on our porch. Corb bought it for $35 from someone on Craigslist. It's not complete yet: he plans to surround it with Christmas presents made out of all the empty boxes from Amazon deliveries we have received. I'll post photos of the other two in the days ahead, promise.

So, three Christmas trees. Yes, we completely have holiday cheer coming out our asses.

###

In other news, we still have 17 partially dug holes in our backyard.

No surprise, I suppose, we gave up trying to dig out those holes and finally contacted the gay electrician. But between the Halloween craziness and planning our awesome Thanksgiving dinner, and all the work John was doing at the time, it took him a while to come over.

John said he could do it before the ground froze...but, well, now it's December and that ground seems pretty frozen to me.

"Just do it in the spring," Corb's boss told him, when he mentioned it yesterday.

"Our builder said the siding could become discolored if we wait until spring." Corb replied.

His boss (who is a bit of an asshole) looked at him as if he had two heads. "The siding could become discolored if you wait until spring," he repeated. "Isn't it outside siding? Why would it discolor?"

Hmm, interesting point. "But wouldn't the boards become warped if they sat in our driveway all winter?" Corb asked. "Don't we need to cover them up with a tarp?"

Again, same look. Two heads. "The boards will become warped if they sat in your driveway all winter," he repeated. "Aren't the boards for your outside deck? Why would they warp? Why would you need to cover them with a tarp?"

Gee thanks, asshole boss. You may have a point there.

Even so, we may still cover them with a tarp. 

One month before the huge Thanksgiving dinner at Green Victoria and the age old fight has already begun: which of the kids will be eating with me and Corb?

See, since Josie and I split, each year, we switch off the kids for two of the major holidays (Thanksgiving and Easter). Well, Ashes and Theo, at least. Poor Annie is always stuck going with Josie to eat at her mother. The problems of being Grandma's favorite child.

This time, however, Annie announced she would be going with us, once she found out the shindig was at our place. That left us with the problem of which of the other kids is going.

Don't get me wrong, Lisa's mom host a lovely dinner. She is a terrific cook. It's just that the space is kind of small and people sometimes like to bicker there. Plus, my mom makes the best stuffing in the whole world.

You'd think it'd be simple, right? Simply look back at the previous year and determine who went then. The problem is, no one ever remembers who exactly went, and I'm not always good at writing it down in my journal.

And, there's one other problem: Theo likes to lie.

Same problem this year. "You went last time," Theo informed Ashes the other day. "I remember it well."

Well, Ashes has a TERRIBLE memory. She couldn't remember. When she asked me, I had a good memory of Easter (Theo went), but not Thanksgiving. So, rather than accept her fate, Ashes did some digging on Facebook. Isn't modern technology wonderful? And, on Theo's Facebook page, she found this photo, which she gleefully presented to Theo. "See? YOU were at Thanksgiving with Dad! It's my turn."



Ah, but she was dealing with Theo! And he didn't miss a beat. "No, you're wrong. That's from Easter," he replied.

And the thing is, Ashes believed him for a moment! She was actually going to give in! He would have totally gotten away with it! But then she stopped for a minute. Looked at the photo again. Can you spot the tell-tale clue?


( THE SOLUTION: Caught red handed )

Two things happened this vacation week, one minor and one fairly major. Both involve Corb's mother, both are kind of connected, in some ways. I will start with the minor story, first.

"Gah, she's such a pain in the ass!" Corb cried out as he hung up the phone as angrily as he could be. Which, in this day of the smart phone, is not half as dramatic as in days gone by.

I had been waiting patiently in the car. She had called immediately after a half an hour walk through the woods. I was cold, it was New England in December. It was the day before the first big snowfall of the season.

"What now, my love?"

"You know the Christmas gift I bought my mother? The small one that was just meant to compliment the gift card that I bought her?" Her. Ah, he had been talking to his mother, of course. Yes, I remembered it. A little garden statue he had purchased for about twenty-five dollars, at my suggestion. Just something to round out the present, make it a bit more personal.

I grinned. I could see where this was going. "She doesn't like it?"

"She does not like it. But Mom being Mom, she can't just accept a gift and keep her mouth shut about it. No, she has to tell me that she doesn't really like it. And then, she has to tell me that Jim looked at it, and he doesn't like it, either. And that she wants the receipt, as soon as possible, so she can exchange it."

See, I never really understood the concept of being negative about gifts that you get.There are some things that I will never understand...such as why men should feel obligated to let women enter elevators first...but when it comes to gift etiquette, if my mother taught me one thing, it was this: simply accept whatever gift you receive with a smile. That's all. Don't complain, don't insist that the person giving the gift do anything other than hand the gift over. I have never in my life heard my mother or father complain about anything they have received. That's the way it shoud be.

It's the thought behind the gift, not the gift itself, that is the important thing, I think.

Curiously, both of my significant others were not raised in families that felt the same way. Aside from Corb and his mom, there were many Christmases where I was with Josie where her parents would openly ridicule her about the gifts she gave them--the sweater was ugly, the clothing was too big. When was she going to exchange it for them? It better be soon.

The irony was, Josie's mother is one of the worst gift givers ever. She honestly repackages things that have been sitting in her house for years. Ashes received the same Tamagochi three years in a row, because they had been stockpiled five years earlier. One Christmas, no word of a lie, I received the gift of used ties that her husband had worn in the seventies and eighties. Some even had cigarette burns.

I didn't complain. I just accepted them and said thank you.

I don't know, am I wrong here? I posted something about this on Facebook,and one of my friends said their brother makes it a practice to open a present, look at it, then throw it back to the person and say, "Yeah, I won't use that." If someone ever was rude enough to do that to me, I would never buy them a present again.

Last night we went out to dinner with Corb's mom. Right before we left the restaurant, she handed him his Christmas gift. Just handed it, that was it, without another word.

It will look great on our balcony.

Sunday morning, long after the delirious orgies that constitute every gay man's Saturday night live had faded into a four o'clock whisper, I found myself waking up at the wee small hour of ten o'clock in the morning. I glanced over to my right to find the Corbster still dead to world, dreaming the dreams of the impure  and snuggled contentedly with his favorite pillow and stuffed animal Yorik wrapped tightly in his arms (I swear I am not making this up), and with an adorable line of spittle drizzling sweetly out of the left side of his mouth.

Walking the stumbling crabby old man's walk that I had somehow acquired after 40-something years on this earth, I made my way into the living room and like a zombie made my way to the nearest computer for my first cyber-fix of the morning. Forget food, forget coffee, I need something electric to get me going in the morning! So I sat down next to the living room desktop, shook the computer awake using the mouse, and there I discovered...

Hmmm, this is interesting. Corb had forgotten to close out his Facebook the night before.

A wicked thought went through my head. So many times, Corb has found my Facebook open. Has he shown mercy? Has he kindly closed my Facebook out as a gentle courtesy?

No. Each and every time, he's made it a point to pretend to be me and posted something ridiculous, I've announced that I once pooped a lampshade, that I have furry man hands, that I want to have Justin Beiber's love child. Sometimes, he's posted four or or five things in a row! And every time I confronted him about it, about the stream of humiliating responses I'd get, he'd just chuckle and think he was the funniest person in the world. 

Now, I had access to his Facebook. I had some time for a little revenge.

Giggling to myself, I sat there for a moment, and then I began typing:

"I love Christmas so much that I'm thinking of hanging holiday ornaments from my nipples. What do you think?"

There. There you go. Take that, Corbster! Satisfied with my little post, I closed out of his Facebook and moved on to searching the internet for porn.

About twenty minutes later, Corb came out of the bedroom.

Another twenty minutes later. "Oh, aren't you funny?"

I just smiled innocently. But here's the thing...he couldn't delete it, exactly. Every time he's hijacked my Facebook, he's yelled at me if I tried to delete his ridiculousness, telling me I couldn't take a joke, that I was taking it too seriously, that it didn't matter if people at work or reporters I was friendly with or small homeless waifs could read something like, "I like to fart at traffic lights" and think I was the person who posted it, they'd figure out it was Corb and think he was so cute and funny and mischievous that all would be forgiven and understood.

In  other words, Corb was bound by his own rules. And I was loving every minute of it.

About an hour later, it began. "Ted, my cousin Shelley just texted me from church," he said. "She wants to know why I want to hang holiday ornaments from my nipples."

I turned around, serious as could be. "You know, I've wondered the same thing, Corb. Why do you want to hang holiday ornaments from your nipples?"

Corb frowned. "Ted."

"I mean, I know you're filled with the holiday spirit and all, but really now? Wouldn't they be kind of bulky and painful?"

"Ted..."

"And who would really see them, anyways? I mean, unless you go shirtless, which I know you're not going to do. Right?"

Another half an hour went by. Corb is sitting at the computer, slurping down a bowl of Cheerios. Suddenly: "Oh my God, you're not going to believe what my friend big gay Matt posted. He read the post and told me not to forget about the Christmas cockwreath!"

I turned away, trying not to grin.

"Ted, what if the people at my work read this? I just became a supervisor there, after all! I can't let them think I want to dangle holiday ornaments from my nipples. Ted, that would be really bad!"

I looked over, saw the stricken look on his face. I relented and allowed him to delete the post.

I am, after all, a kind and gentle man at heart. But let me tell you something...it really did feel awfully good to have that shoe on the other foot for just a few hours of my life.

Badaboom! Hope youze guys have a great holiday, filled with lots of spray-on tanning lotion, hair product, and a freakin' partridge in a pear tree, if you know what I mean.

Hey, it's been an interesting year, to say the least, but we all got through it. Some of us even grew a little wiser, I think. Here's wishing all of my LJ friends a great holiday season, a terrific Christmas (for those who celebrate the birth of the baby Snooky), and the best of times in the year ahead.

My wish for the year ahead: Here's to more stories...most of them happy, I hope...in the next twelve months, and the gift and ability to tell them well. I can't wait to see what happens to everyone in the year ahead!

All the best,
Ted

By the way, for those of you not into this silly wave of reality TV, I tried to keep the New Jersey characters somewhat recognizable: aside from the three central characters (Snooky as Baby Jesus, the Situation as Joseph, and some chick from The Real Housewives of New Jersey as Mary), the rest of da guys are all famous New Jersey folks. The governor Chris Christie, and Danny Devito and Joe Pesci as the resident goombas. Then the three wise men: Jon Bon Jovi, Frankie Valli, and Bruce Springsteen.

A scene from the Kirkpinar oil wrestling festival. Really, I can see why this intangible tradition needs to be preserved and cherished!

Recently, the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) added 46 new "elements" to its list of the "Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity." These are customs and traditions, such as the gingerbread craft from Croatia or the Kırkpınar oil wrestling festival, that UNESCO considers as important to safeguard, in order to keep them alive and kicking.

Although quite a comprehensive list, I did happen to notice that, somehow, there were a few pretty tangible intangibles that seemed to have, for reasons that escape me, failed to have made the list so far. I'm sure it's simply an oversight. Maybe UNESCO just didn't receive the application in time? In any event, I'd like to suggest the following tradition:

The seasonal flagellation of Josie for throwing away my Summer Sausage Twenty-five years ago, back in the days before Josie was married to me and we were living in sin with Annie, she committed an unspeakable act. One night in April, when I was doing my finances, I had a hankering for a piece of the summer sausage my parents had given to me (as they do every Christmas) for some Hickory Farms summer sausage. However, when I checked in the fridge, THE SAUSAGE WAS GONE. Josie had thrown it away, since it was only a tiny stump, had been in the fridge for four months, and would probably have killed me. NO MATTER. Can you imagine how I felt? The pain, the sadness, the lack of summer sausage after a hard night of work? For this, every year for perpetuity, she shall be mocked and castigated, and her mortal sin shall be paraded out for all the world to see.

The annual reading of the Santa Ghost story on Christmas Eve On the night before Christmas, my kids don't ask me to read "The Night Before Christmas," but ask me to tell them the cherished story of a murderous psychopath who sneaks into Josie's house and tries to kill them at midnight. Each and every time, they defeat him, along with the help of the family pets. This is a critical part of this country's oral tradition that must be maintained.

My father singing "School Days" before the start of the new school year : My father's now an old man, so this is a really old part of this country's cultural heritage. His singing of the cherished song School Days on the first day of school continues to this day, whenever my sister Kerrie, a teacher, heads off for her first day of school in September.

Corbett's beloved "Walk the Dinosaur" dance When Corbett was only a small little Corby, he invented a dance to the one-hit wonder "Walk the Dinosaur" that involved moving his little blond head and using his hands like dinosaur paws. On occasion, if you're really quiet, hide in the brush, and play loud 80s music, you can see the native Corby come out and recreate these movements. It's a sight that only a privileged few can ever witness, because you really need to go deep into the native habitat of the Corby, but for those who have witnessed it, it is something they will cherish forever.

The Eldredge Players Singing of Paddy Murphy My theater group has a charming tradition that they trot out after each and every rehearsal. At some point in the night, around three beers into the evening at their favorite watering hole, someone will stand up and start belching out "The Night that Paddy Murphy Died," an old Irish ballad. Since I'm drunk by the time they start singing it, I have yet to learn all the words. PS: It sounds a lot better when drunk.

The annual family Thanksgiving fight I don't think this one is actually isolated to the town of Eldredge! But let's face it, after the turkey's eaten and the pumpkin pies have been consumed, who of us doesn't like to undo our belts, take off our shoes, and jump into a big ugly Thanksgiving fight? Things thrown, dark family secrets revealed, tears and wailing of teeth, drywall punched, slamming doors, screaming, someone leaving in a huff? By golly, it's a downright beloved American tradition! I know that we've had a few in our family (our last one involved me and Josie, and Ashes throwing her copy of The Outsiders out the front door). PS: It sounds a lot better when drunk.

Our summer sojourn to Canoby Lake Some people make pilgramages to the Holy Land. Others visit Rome. Me, I'm just happy visiting this amusement park in New Hampshire at least once during the summer with the kids. It reminds me of summer visits to a place called Rocky Point when I was a kid, except with a better view. Rides that make you nauseous, foods filled with grease and fat, and that exhausting, breathtaking ride on a wooden roller coaster right before the park closes...now that says summer to me.

The annual parade of women with inverted nipples Okay, I made this one up. But it sure sounds like a lot of fun!