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Erin go Bragh
(Contrary to popular belief, that actually means something like “Go, Ireland! Work that thang, guuurl.” Or “Ireland Forever” if you want to be straight-laced about it.)
Growing up, we had two equally serious St. Patrick’s Days every year. The first was on the day of the Staten Island parade two weeks before the “real” one. Everyone took it at face value, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, decking themselves out in green and Irish sweaters and tweed newsboy caps with faces of sincerity. Drunk, jolly sincerity. Everyone flocking to Forest Avenue to stand around drinking in the cold. Buying green spray-painted carnations to stick into lapels and give to pretty girls. And everyone stopping into Carvel for a green shake (if not a green beer at any of the billion bars-turned-pubs-for-a-day).
Since the whole Island was doing it, it never struck me as anything but normal to do it twice, but how strange we really were, New York City’s weird little sister dressing up for Halloween two weeks too soon. (The second, obviously, was March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, when my mother would wake me up with glittery shamrock stickers and a shamrock pin to wear proudly on my school uniform.)
Anyway, I met a woman a few days ago who brought all that back. It was four days early, and she was dressed head to toe in green, with dangly silver shamrocks hanging from her ears, and a white turtleneck with an embroidered pot of gold peeking out of her “Kiss me, I’m Irish” sweatshirt.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you, and an extra goofy green Happy St. Patrick’s Day to her! Enjoy your corned beef and cabbage.
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Hip Hip, Holiday!
The short list of things I want to do in the next eleven days:
1. Watch: The Sound of Music, It’s a Wonderful Life, Holiday Inn, and White Christmas.
2. Read: The Night Before Christmas, the current New Yorker, and anything else that takes me away from tax news and TSA mandates. I’m looking at you Atlantic.
3. Drink: Hot chocolate with whipped cream.
4. See: The toy soldier house in Dyker Heights. Rock Center tree.
5. Do: Ice skating, gift wrapping, and please-my-grandmother-Christmas-Eve-church-going.
The only thing on my don’t-want list:
1. Go back to the post office.
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His Magic Hat
I saw a commercial the other day that foretold the eventual breakup of a perfectly average consumer-grade American family. The dad and son are outside patting some superfluous snow onto the already-perfect spheres that comprise their snowman, while the mom and daughter are inside doing something irrelevant, just like their existence. I think they’re sitting on the couch. And they may have actually been the focus of the commercial, which I think was for Glade something-something holiday scents, which make the holidays [whisper:] maaa-gic.
Anyway, it’s becoming clear that this is all manipulated pretty heavily by my lack of memory, but let’s press on. Dad and son, outside and bundled up. Mom and daughter, inside and cozy in the brightly lit living room. Division. Physical separation. Gender stereotypes. But I don’t care about any of that.
Fast forward to the part where the Glade (and it may not be Glade) is pooping holiday scent all over the cozy living room, which the commercial represents visually with a smattering of red sparkly star animation and the mom and daughter’s portrayal of wonderment.
It’s at the same moment that the dad and son pop their heads into the corner of the window frame, peeking in to see what the warmer half of the family is doing. And when the mom and daughter turn around to wink knowingly at them, they see a LIVING FUCKING SNOWMAN standing and smiling over the dad’s shoulder, which realization shocks everyone. But then, as commercials are wont to do, this one resolves by dissolving everyone into a placid smile.
The message? I guess it’s that Glade is some radioactive special stuff.
The problem is, this isn’t a cartoon. It’s a real, if a little rosy, depiction of life in your average middle-of-the-country ‘Merican home. So my next question, naturally, is how does that family cope with the existential dread of having brought to life a snow-based monster who will die as soon as it’s melting weather again, which could be tomorrow or could be next month.
Not to mention that despite his friendly appearance, their Snow Man could be something infinitely more sinister than good old Frosty. And where does he sleep? In the garage? Dave, I’ve asked you a thousand times not to let your boots melt out in the garage and now you want a fucking SNOWMAN to fucking LIVE out there?!
See? Glade set this poor family up for disaster.
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From Now On Our Troubles Will Be Miles Away
There are just some things guaranteed to not fuck up Christmas (and sort of even bring it back to life). Consider:
1. Bono’s super-serious appeal of the 90s: “This Christmas. Baby. Please come home.”
See also: every single song on the Charlie Brown Christmas album. (Just don’t watch the actual Charlie Brown Christmas special (aka the most depressing cartoon ever produced).) More holiday cheer? The Drifters’ White Christmas in Santa and reindeer form:
2. Break out the games you played as an eager kid on the big Eve. (Or, in my case, a game my husband played: Santa Bingo!) Don’t forget to re-read The Night Before Christmas too.
3. Watch Holiday Inn for the twentieth time — because it features snow, and Bing Crosby’s ability to dance circles around holiday anxiety. Then, after everyone else has gone off to bed, pop in George and Mary Bailey for a good Christmas cry. And if you have some leftover tears, have a quick listen to Elvis’ Blue Christmas — he’ll be so blue just thinking about you.
4. Make your favorite Christmas cookie. Butter cookie angels with white frosting skirts or gingerbread muscle-men made to look like Aaarnold?
5. Candy canes. I don’t care who you are — they’re just good. (Kind of. In a nostalgic, they’re-sticky-and-usually-don’t-taste-all-that-yummy-and-get-stuck-in-your-teeth kind of way.) Just stick them in some hot chocolate. Or that other hot beverage you have there.
It’s A Wonderful Life, and I hope you have a very merry one (and a good holiday too).