Two Sizes Too Small
by Jonathan Penton
Right, so Christmas.
I knew it was on its last legs when even the U.S. Post Office replaced their annual Jesus stamps with stamps featuring the Grinch.
As a Jew, the holiday is very interesting, from the outside. Here we have the biggest religious holiday of the year morphing into a sort of mall feeding frenzy that makes everyone a little more unhappy, each year. People go into debt. They get into fights at the malls. They don't get their mail, because the Post Office delivers erratically. Now, they do much of their shopping online, thereby avoiding people, which is an unusual way to celebrate any holiday. When recession hits the U.S., they naturally do less shopping. At which point every news program and newspaper starts bitching about how the economy is going to become even worse because we aren't buying enough toys.
Even if I were a Christian, I imagine I would try to keep my participation very limited. Each year, I give a few presents to my closest friends, and small Hanukkah gifts to my immediate family. And, of course, I splurge on my son. But I only have one, and I don't see him very often. I thus feel obligated to ruin his character by loading him down with a lot of materialistic crap.
But back to the point. I was really broke this year, so I gave most everyone books out of my library, some of which were worth a good deal more than I would normally spend on my friends. The season started for me with my friend Jennifer's birthday party, December 14th. I rustled up some cash and bought her an electric aromatherapy thingy. December 15th was my family's Hanukkah celebration. My parents gave me some web space, one brother gave me a Border's gift card, and another brother gave me a vibrating pillow (I'm not sure why). Fine gifts. I went shopping for my son that day, and mailed a bunch of crap to him on Monday.
I really am going somewhere with this, honest.
A few days later, I received an e-mail from my mother, telling me about Christmas party she was throwing. Now, this isn't the first year my mother has tried to get the family together for Christmas. It's a challenge for her, to say the least. My older brother, the married one, spends Christmas with her family in Indiana. My mother's family is, well, Jewish. My son is not, so when he's been in town, I've dropped by to see her on Christmas day. But this year, my son is in Seattle.
So I really had no interest in spending Christmas with my parents. First, the holiday disgusts me, and I find the idea of Jews celebrating Christmas slightly offensive anyway. More importantly, my mother had already invited my ex-girlfriend, whom she is still desperately hoping that I'll marry.
So, here's how that played out in my mind. My mother assumed I would come to her Christmas party, no matter what. So she invited my ex, to ensure that we'd all be spending the holidays together. She didn't ask me how I felt about seeing my ex. She just invited her, and then invited me, apparently forgetting that I HATE CHRISTMAS, anyway.
Well, that didn't work. I declined the invitation. My mother and ex presumably spent Christmas together, staring at one another.
I was in a pretty foul mood by the time Christmas approached, partly because of this, partly because I hate the holidays, and partly because I'm a foul, moody motherfucker. On Christmas Eve, I was hanging out with Paul and Jennifer, having delivered their gifts to them. Jennifer declared that she was headed out to go shopping, and asked me, "You're a Jew, so you don't need a Christmas gift, right?"
I freaked. I was utterly livid, after scrounging for cash for her birthday present, and parting with books from my collection. I started bitching and moaning, "You really would, wouldn't you? You aren't going to get me shit?"
"Jesus, Jonathan, I was just kidding!"
"Oh," I said. "Sorry."
"Damn, Jonathan!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"I mean, Jesus!"
"I said I was sorry, OK?" Uncertain of what to do, I rubbed her head. She bitched at me a little while longer, than said, "OK, forget it, you rubbed my head, all is forgiven." She then bitched at me a little longer, probably more aware than anyone that when I rub her head, it's really because I want to punch her in the mouth.
I'd just like to take a moment to make it clear that Jennifer has still not given me a Christmas present. It's January 3rd.
I was in a really foul mood by Christmas. I hate the holidays, I hate my friends, and I'm not real keen on my damn family. I did, however, sit down on Christmas day and open the two cards I received this year.
The first was from Melvin Sandberg. It was a large card, with a charming, glittery winter scene, and two cardinals in a snow bank. Inside, on the left, he had written,
The reason I chose this card was that my wife Ann loved to feed the birds every winter.
Hundreds of birds came to our yard. Sparrows, blue jays, cardinals, finches, barn pigeons and doves.
Her favorite bird was the cardinal, and their bright, red color against the white snow was a beautiful sight.
On the right side of the card, I read:
Dear Jonathan Penton,
I wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
May you have all the joys of the Christmas season and happiness throughout the coming year.
Thank you for publishing my poems on the Internet. My son Sam enjoys them in Iowa and my granddaughter Sheri in Italy using the college computer.
Sincerely,
Mel
The second card was from Paul Truttman. It's a highly festive affair, in red, green, and gold. Paul is currently incarcerated, and the fact that he managed to get cards and send them is something to consider.
The card read:
Mr. Penton,
Each year one of these cards gives me the opportunity to thank those persons who have allowed me to feel welcome.
Please accept my sincerest appreciation.
Paul Truttman
Reciprocal card not desired.
The last part might seem unnecessary, but Paul is a man who specializes in being misunderstood, and wanted to take a moment to be clear.
There's guilt here, as there should be, since both Melvin and Paul have been waiting for some time for me to address their conventional-mail submissions. But mostly, there's gratitude and appreciation. The cards are nice. And Christmas only sucks if you let it. My bitterness is optional.
Jonathan Penton is the overworked editor and publisher of Unlikely Stories. Check out his literary works at this site.