Well, the official countdown has started. Christmas is just around the corner, and I am way behind with my preparations.
I think it was around October when I committed myself to cleaning up the home office, rearranging my bedroom, and clearing out the liquor cabinet of old liqueurs that have been sitting in there since 2002. I guess we never got around to using that creme de menthe as much as we thought we might. There are cocktail apps out there that will tell you what drinks you can make, once you plug in the ingredients you have on hand. But I’d defy them to come up with anything palatable that includes Goldschläger and apricot brandy.
Of course, I haven’t got around to any of the above tasks, so the bottle of Hpnotiq lives to fight another day and I’m still digging through boxes to find our one stapler. Beyond that, I’ve come up with every excuse to not finish putting the lights out in the front garden. One cloud in the sky: “Nope, looks like it’s going to bucket down. Better wait until it passes.”
All of this lack of motivation adds up to plenty of time spent in front of the television, where we can at least catch up with the latest holiday programming and slowly tick off the list of the Christmas movies we watch every year, without fail.
The first thing that struck me is that ‘Elf’ is now considered a classic because it’s 20 years old. As Ralphie in ‘The Simpsons’ once said, “That’s unpossible!” How has it been two decades since Will Ferrell first graced our screens in that now-iconic green and yellow ensemble? ‘Love Actually’ is also 20 years old (easier to believe, as Hugh Grant – who was then UK Prime Minister – is now, in 2023, an Oompa Loompa) and ‘National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation’ is 34 years old.
I watched ‘Home Alone’ a few nights ago, and that kid who outwitted the two burglars is now in his 40s and recently appeared on ‘Celebrity Jeopardy!’.
As I sat there, wondering where the time had gone, bestie and housemate Lynne wandered into the living room in her elf pyjamas; the perfect attire for watching these films. That was what I needed to do – change into some festive clothes to really bring my Christmas mojo back. Then, maybe, I’d get off my keister and finish hanging the lights, rather than turning into a couch potato.
Into my bedroom I went to choose an outfit. The Olaf costume was right out. It was unwieldy, the headpiece was ginormous and it was wildly impractical for doing anything but standing and waving. I considered my tartan pyjamas, but those had a hole in the back of the trousers and, if you recall, I could not find the stapler.
I had bought a Mrs. Claus outfit a couple of years ago and never worn it. This could be the perfect opportunity! I took it off the hanger, pulled it over my head, and… nearly strangled myself in the process. How was this an XL? It was all I could do to get my arms in it, and as I lowered them – like a slow-motion jumping jack – I felt the material straining past my chest. The result was an empire-waist dress that was not designed to be so, which meant the front of the skirt was up by my crotch. Mrs. Claus meets the French can-can.
It took me a good few minutes to divest myself of that straitjacket, before I turned my attention to the elf costume I had recently bought – y’know, just in case. I had taken that one out of its bag and held it up in front of myself before I committed to the $49.99 it cost; so, I felt pretty confident about this option. That was short-lived, because, again, I had underestimated my… voluptuousness. This time around was actually worse, as I couldn’t even get my arms down once they were inside the sleeves. There I was, in my bedroom, absolutely trapped, hands in the air like I was being held at gunpoint and half my face covered with the neck of the outfit. I had to yell for Lynne to help me out of it and even with assistance, it was touch-and-go for a moment. Of course, we would have cut the thing off me before calling the fire department, but luckily it didn’t come to that.
After trying the two costumes, with no success, leaving me agitated and sweaty, I was not in the best of moods. I gave up on the head-to-toe look and settled for a T-shirt with ‘Merry & Bright’ on it and black jogging pants. Not as festive as I might have hoped, but at least I could breathe and sit down.
After all of that exertion, I figured I needed a drink. Hey, maybe that was the way to slowly clear out the liquor cabinet.
One cinnamon apricot martini coming right up; shaken, not stirred.
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