"It's Christmas and I Want Everything Now"

I am not Jewish. No one in my family is Jewish. This is sad to me, because, being non-Jewish, I have no avenue to display that I know the proper spelling of yarmulke, which is, in fact, yarmulke. Just like that. Except I think I did just show off my spelling prowess, which means that blogs really can solve all of your problems, possibly extending to the realms of death and taxes. I'll let you know how that goes this April the Fifteenth.

Anyway, I digress. My point: I am not Jewish, even though I know how to spell yarmulke. Not being Jewish, I am instead Christian, and so I celebrate Christmas along with the rest of my family. No, being Christian is not the only other religious option should one be un-Jewish, but it's the option my Anglo-Saxon, Mayflower-sailing, God-fearing, corn-eating ancestors chose, and it's one we've pretty much stuck with. I think. Mostly. I refuse to do that genealogy trash my mother gets into, so I wouldn't really know.

Right, this is going to be one of those posts. Perfect. So, we're not Jewish, I hate my family, and the house is all strung out for Christmas, announcing to our neighbors our December holiday affiliations. Normally, this would be no problem. Houses decorated for Christmas are cheery and warm and festive. Except my mother collects nutcrackers. And by "collects," I mean there are enough standing guard on our piano to effectively wage war against a medium-sized country (think Greece) and win. There they sit, smiling, smiling, smiling, with their costumes and their painted black eyes that never close. It's one of the most frightening things I have ever witnessed. We're talking Art's-mother-killing-the-spider frightening. Well, almost. Well, not really at all, actually. Sorry to bring up bad images. But you're not the one being confronted with an army of beastly, wooden child's-toy-gone-horribly-wrong-s.

Each year the things multiply. My mother got three new ones this year and made me identify which three they were out of the bunch. I closed my eyes and picked at random, praying for mercy. Turns out, I guessed correctly, which supports my theory that I am magical. I was going to count them, but I think I've sufficiently freaked myself out now to spend the rest of the holidays perched on my doorstep, shivering and begging alms from pleasant passers-by. Come on by and chuck me some alms and feel free to gape at the freak collection taking over my house. Egg nog anyone?