Soap Poisoning

Ahh, I love Christmas. That time of year when we celebrate the birth of our Lord. I love most everything about the Holidays, from Marshmallow Popcorn to spending time with family. From giving gifts to acts of service. But my favorite thing about Christmas has to be Christmas movies. I love 'em. All of 'em.

I think this has a great deal to do with the fact that I have lived a good deal of them. Every Christmas for the last four years, every wise-acre who knows me suddenly becomes a board-certified eye surgeon who is convinced to their inner most core that Kerataconus is a fancy Latin term for soap poisoning. And I suppose that may be it. Though I was never allowed a BB gun (Even with good eyes, would you want a somewhat less mature version of me with a semi-lethal firearm?), I did want one.

And I admit that my language has been, shall we say, "J. Goldenesque" (If I wasn't home, I was in a locker room). But I sure knew better than to cuss in front of my mother. And on those occasions when I did mess up, nobody bothered with soap. I just got my teeth rattled. So no, fans of Ralphie; I don't have soap poisoning.

We did get a flat tire on the way to a Christmas party once and I was tempted to call the eldest out to help me change it, but thought better of it. And that same year we had a Grinch steal Christmas right out from the locked trunk of our car(The only person who knew there was anything in there was the mechanic who replaced the tire. Hmmm....). Whoever the Grinch was must not have heard our "Who singing" (Puzey does a fine Cindy Lou Who impersonation), because we never got anything back. Oh well.

And I know what it feels like to be both Cousin Eddie ("The gas money gave out in Gurney, we coasted into town on fumes") and George Bailey ("I wish I had a million dollars..."), as in recent years the Boss and I have been the undeserving objects of many of Santa's best honorary elves. I can't really explain what it feels like to be thirty five years old and find yourself re-evaluating your belief in the Head Elf.

A few years ago, it was like one of those cartoons when Elmer Fudd chases Buggs Bunny behind a door, and when he opens it there is nothing in the closet, then he opens it again and there is something, and he takes it and closes the door and when he opens it again, there are two somethings, and then four somethings, and then eight. Every time I opened the door we found that someone had been thinking about us at Christmas time. All of it was anonymous, and it was plainly the work of several people working independent of one another. They had to be causing a traffic jam in front of the house. It was (get the soap ready) the damnedest thing I have ever been blessed with. When the Lord says he will open the windows of heaven and pour out a blessing that you won't have room enough to receive it? I get that now. So I get George Bailey. I really do.

It occurs to me that some of you loyal readers probably had more than something to do with that, and if so, thank you. You'll be glad to know that this year, the Boss and I are square with Santy Claus, and things are a little more "White Christmas" around here. But I look forward to being an Elf again soon.

Merry Christmas!