Since the day after Christmas is the most depressing day of the year, I figured I’d share a few personal Christmas stories to lighten the mood.
When I was little, my dad would make me wrap the gifts he’d gotten for his friends and co-workers. It was a bit like child labor, but I enjoyed the responsibility and it was a nice creative outlet when my sister needed time-off from choreographing Lion King music videos. I called myself, “The Mad Wrapper,” and I’d autograph every gift I wrapped. Unfortunately, I was (and still am) a terrible speller. Thus, instead of signing my gifts “The Mad Wrapper,” I signed them all “The Mad Raper.”
Looking back, I sincerely hope my parents noticed my law-suitable trademark before handing these gifts over to friends and co-workers. While today I can laugh at my horrendously disturbing spelling mistake, I’m sure “The Mad Raper” did not go over so well in my father’s workplace.
My next Christmas story is one of love. If you’ve read my Dear Diary post, you’ll understand how much of a creepy mess I was when it came to the male species. Unfortunately, Christmas time brought out the worst in me, and my borderline unhealthy creepiness extended to the elf community. When I was about 7, I was head-over-heels in love with Bernard, the very Jewish-looking elf from The Santa Clause. In my defense, Bernard wasn’t just any elf — he was the Head Elf. Between his position of authority, velour messenger cap collection, and dark, curly mop of dreadlockish hair, I was hooked. Every Christmas Eve, I’d slip into my sexiest set of pajamas — usually my silky Aladdin set — and I’d try to fall asleep flat on my back, with my hands crossed over my heart just like Princess Aurora in Sleeping Beauty (Google it). I’d fantasize about the moment when Bernard and Santa would break into my household — While Santa was busy binge eating and sparring with Buster, Bernard would sneak up to my room to catch a glimpse of me. He’d take one look at my Princess Jasmine-inspired ensemble, flawless, prepubescent complexion and he would fall madly in love with me.
Obviously things didn’t work out between Bernard and I — as I got older, I realized that his impossibly curly black hair was most likely a weave attached to his velour beanie, and that was just not something I was willing to live with.