ja_koniga

The gift exchange part of Christmas is particularly awful for me, deciding what kinds of things to buy, who to buy for, what item will be the most offensive. SML and I tried to agree on what to get each other, agreeing several times this year that we’d finally decide on a piece of art to hang over our couch instead of individual presents. When Christmas Eve did finally roll around I received a new coffee machine slash grinder, effectively feeding my caffeine habit. I gave SML new shoes, feeding his habit of collecting shoes in a basket.

We practically lived at SML’s parents’ home this holiday, eating nearly all of our meals with SML’s siblings. I pretend to be a light eater at these events, taking small portions, eating as slowly as possible, and then taking more when I think no one is looking. For one of these meals SML’s dad cooked incredibly delicious, large tennis ball sized meatballs.

SML retreated to the kitchen when his sister asked him to fetch a plastic spoon to serve the meatballs, and then promptly returned to the table and began balancing the meatballs on an actual plastic spoon, the kind of plastic spoon you’d receive for take-out, and then wobbled it over to his plate. It reminded me of a circus balancing act, watching him move a meatball across the table with such an undersized medium, feeling nervous that the meatball might fall without a net to catch it. I was going to tell SML he had some serious balancing skill but instead said, “ I think she meant for you to grab a serving spoon.”

Earlier this month, I told SML that his spending limit for my Christmas present should be somewhere between two and five dollars. A week before Christmas, SML increased the spending limit after I told him I owed him for taking me to work in the morning after an incident with my car that was only slightly worse than Hurricane Katrina.

I pretend that everything I say is the “law” and felt exasperated that SML was using the ride to work as leverage. I decided later that it would be best to let SML have his way; because there were days this month I thought his stress level would sedate him into a vegetable state.

The Saturday before Christmas, SML began fidgeting and became claustrophobic in the Pontiac’s passenger seat, relenting only slightly after he had taken off his shoes and screamed out the window at passing semi-trucks. In the back of my mind, I considered that I had found my soul-mate; because at that moment, after fighting traffic and shoppers since November, I screamed too.

The party was held downtown in the very religious square in Utah called “Temple Square.” I got a part-time job there earlier this summer because of random insanity but couldn’t actually go through with it because I cringe at they very thought of being known as a “Gay Mormon.” That and it would have been really embarrassing to serve food to my co-workers from my real job.

Before the party, I stopped off to look at the Christmas lights downtown and snapped a couple of photos. Curiously, at the same time I was taking these pictures, I saw a man who totally didn’t believe me that his hard drive was on the fritz. We both hid from each other in by running into opposite ends of a soon to be demolished four-story mall. I’m all about spreading holiday cheer.

Christmas shopping is on my ‘list of things I hate most’ right under other things like going to the dentist, paying for gas, and going number two. And it gets worse every year as I pace back and forth down mall corridors, thinking of whether or not I should buy everyone I know a Bobble-head Doll with my head on it.

This year is particularly agonizing because my budget allows for nothing other than eighty-five cent meals and one-ply toilet paper. I’m going to promise everyone I know that this is just a “phase”, and that I’m not ordinarily this cheap. Because when I handout loaves of bread this year, I might get kicked in the crotch. But I’m certain that the loaves of bread will be better than carrying around mistletoe and giving out free kisses to anyone that wants a present.

Cole called while I was shopping for SML and said, ‘Why are you getting that for him? That’s not exciting.” I felt exasperated and tried to explain that my ill-fated Pontiac needed seven hundred dollars for a sensor thingy and has since left my pockets bare of change that could go towards “excitement.” And that she was only getting half a loaf of bread.

When Cole suggested that I get a sex toy instead, I considered asking her if she had ever met SML whom I often refer to as the Teacher; because if she had, she would know that not only would SML turn the deepest shade of red possible, but that he’d probably have problems looking at me in the face ever again. That, and that it would be the worst possible life span of a sex toy; facing the fate of being chopped up in a food disposal and then flushed down a toilet.

I’m thinking of getting him one anyways just to see what happens. It might be like watching marshmellows explode in the microwave.

There’s a cool site on the Internet called “Buy Nothing Christmas.” It’s a really useful site if you find yourself with an empty pocketbook this year.

I got out my pre-lit Christmas tree from Wal-Mart a couple of nights ago that I keep stored in a tiny space in my closet with my luggage. The tree is bare because I don’t have any decorations other than silver ornament hooks that I could string month-old shredded wheat onto. And although I had decorations last year, I threw them all away in a fit of rage that may, or may not have included a hand-stitched pillow and everything else that I owned. Except for the repulsive recycled mess that I call a nightstand. I kept that.

Over the years, I’ve become less sentimental to things other than my underwear. And I’ll even give those away if I’m persuaded in the right way. So when I was watching last week’s episode of ‘Ugly Betty’ where Betty’s family decorated their tree with hand-made ornaments, I felt guilty for spending $6.00 at the Dollar Tree for cheap ornament balls that I’ll probably toss into the dumpster at the end of the season. Half guilty because I wish I practiced more traditions; and half guilty because I swear I got as many ornament balls for like $2.00 last year. And they didn’t bounce when you dropped them.

Sipping our hot Mochas, we strolled down Main Street heading north to the Temple lights. The lights aren’t anything special but they seem to liven the mood. It must be romantic since the old Century Buick parked near the Art History Museum was occupied by a couple making out. I said “Kissy Kissy!” in a high-pitched chipmunk voice and then told the story of when I saw a boy propose to a girl on Santa’s knee.

Later that night, I made some mad margaritas. Feliz Navidad everyone.