December09:19 Dec 06 2005
Times Read: 751
The nightmare always starts with that terrifying phrase…
‘Honey, don’t you think it’s time we got the decorations down from the high shelves in the garage?’
My mind goes blank at that deceptively sweet tone.
I know.
It is time.
My father, like a bear with a permanently soar paw, gruffly replies that he’s busy. (In fact, he’s on the computer playing solitaire) I cautiously tiptoe upstairs in a hurry, but I can still hear my mother nagging on and on. Finally, my father decides to unstick his butt from the stool, take out the car, and dandle precariously on the creaking ladder we still haven’t replaced. I hear… all the block hears… muffled shouts and curses coming from underneath layers of dust. Then, a shriek, as my mother tries to catch the boxes and various ornaments and bits of tinsel my father flings down together with a rain of oaths.
I dress quickly, grab the mp3 player, and try to disappear. TOO LATE.
‘Darling, darling!’ Cries an urgent and bubbly voice ‘come downstairs we’re DECORATING!!!’
I hear my father sigh. Then a tinkle. Gods! The Christmas lights! I had forgotten! I go downstairs and find, literally, miles and miles of the stuff trailing everywhere. ‘Don’t step on them’ barks my father ‘I’m testing them’. I already know he’s got hours of that. I hop around downstairs, trying not to squash brightly coloured flowers and blinking birds. My mother is in the middle of the corridor draped in tinsel and holding out the foldable Christmas tree. ‘Come and help me’ she commands, ‘don’t you think we need to buy more gold tinsel?’ I stifle a gasp. More???
She shrieks ‘Oooh I forgot?!!’ and dashes in the dining room. ‘Don’t step on the lights!’ snaps dad. She hops on, and then I groan as I hear ‘Let it Snow’ sung by ten raucous children full blast echoing through the house. Mum hops back to the tree. ‘Now isn’t that MUCH better?’ she gushes. I grit my teeth and hold out the decorations.
After three hours of hopping round and round the Christmas tree. It is finally finished. Fake snow and all. I sigh and prepare to go back upstairs and try to forget ‘Jingle Bells Rock’. No such luck. ‘Don’t you want to put up your favourite decoration?’ asks my mum plaintively. ‘And what’s that?’ I ask, my heart already sinking. ‘Why, the crib of course!’ My stomach heaves. Oh Goddess! I’m not even Christian, and she knows that! That’s why she likes ramming things like this down my throat. I give her one of my looks. ‘Ok’ I say through gritted teeth, knowing it would be worse if I tried to refuse.
I take out the enormous crib, bigger than the one they have in church, and start playing around with the sixty minuscule figures, not to mention hundreds of tiny sheep. And the fake fodder. And the pieces of thyme flying everywhere. And the lights. Suddenly, the dog grabs a sheep and runs off. Shrieks everywhere. I run after her to the sound of my father bellowing ‘Don’t step on the lights!!!’ and some old women chanting ‘Good King Wenceslas’. The least said the better. I catch the mangled sheep and pass an hour trying to make sense of the foresaid crib. What the hell where they selling chickens and flowers in the middle of the night for?
Well, after it’s ready to my mother’s satisfaction, I finally get to scamper away. But the worse is yet to come.
First, the Christmas Cards. I always know they’re writing the list of who to include when all the shouting scares away the birds in the orange tree outside my window. Yes. They actually write a list of all the people who qualify as ‘friends we talk to’. Then, the writing of the cards starts and continues for a day or so. We also have a retour of the shouting match when they mutually realize they have written to people who were not on the list.
Second. The Christmas dinner. Gods! My uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents always come here for that fateful twenty-fifth, so mother insists on preparing a seven course meal. And guess who’s to bear the brunt of her grumblings, ramblings, and various schizophrenic attacks? Plus who’s to help her prepare the menu, buy the ingredients, and actually cook this feast? Mais c`est moi! Of course! We pour for days on end on cookery books and internet websites. Then finally she decides. Afterwards, come the endless days of visiting the various shops and supermarkets to compare prices before actually buying anything. Then, more days to buy the thingies. In the meantime, as you can imagine, I’m internally inventing new, and really original, swearwords.
Thirdly, the presents. I don’t know what’s worse. Spending money one doesn’t have for people one doesn’t know or like, or receiving always the same bland gifts given over with facetious smiles, and pretending you like them? I not only have to buy my own presents, but also have to go with my mother when she buys hers. More days of shouting in the middle of the street. All the vendors in the capital know us by now. And tremble.
And then, the big day finally arrives…
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