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Saturday, December 18, 2004

'Tis The Season To Be Tortured

Maybe I really am a Scrooge. I've searched high and low for this Christmas spirit of mine and I'm tellin' ya, it's still MIA. I want to be excited. I want to find the perfect gifts and whatnots for my loved ones and those other people on my list but so far, it just ain't happenin'. The stores are overflowing with obnoxious people and minimal cool gifts. Although I have plenty of shopping left to do, I know my Christmas spirit will not be found at the mall. And thankfully, I have accepted that.

I thought getting the perfect Christmas tree would work. It didn't.

I thought seeing the holiday production at the school would help. It didn't.

Hearing sleigh bells outside my door, I felt a glimmer of hope. Carolers come every year through my little neighborhood. I opened my door and sure enough, dressed all warm with Santa hats, I saw two carolers. I almost smiled. Almost. They might have helped get my spirit in gear, if only they weren't tone def.

I listened and cringed as they slaughtered sang "Silent Night". I gave them each two dollars. Not so they would perform more, so they would go away. Much to my chagrin, they misinterpreted the money as a request for an encore.

In a feeble attempt to get the tone def twins to buzz off, I put my thumb in my ear and my pinky near my mouth, doing the telephone motion, and then I pointed into my house. Which to me meant, "I got a phone call. I need to get it. Buh-bye!"

They thought it meant, come on in where's it's nice and warm and hang loose. As off key as they were they didn't miss a beat and followed me into the house. The phone wasn't ringing and I shrugged my shoulders in an upward motion as I held the silent phone in my hand. Still singing, I tried to shoo them out, like you would a fly.

These girls were at least 14-years-old. What the hell were they doing going into a strangers house? I could have been a kidnapper, a murderer or worse yet, someone who actually liked the crap they sang. If I knew who their parents were, I would have called and told them what their girls were up to. I also would have told them the money they gave the girls for singing lessons apparently was spent on crack because neither could carry a tune in a bucket.

I frantically reached for my purse as they began singing the "12 Days of Christmas", which to me is like the song "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall", and I was not having it. I pulled out two more dollars. I held the bills over each of their heads. I walked toward the door waving the dollars, and in a very carrot in front of a rabbit way, they followed.

At this rate, it'll take a fruitcake upside my head before my Christmas spirit kicks in.