The Spirit of Christmas

Warning: This post contains spoilers for “The Spirit of Christmas.”

A few nights ago, I treated myself and my cats to a sappy Christmas movie. “This will be fun,” I thought, as I snuggled into the couch with my wine and blue corn chips. I landed on The Spirit of Christmas, a TV movie undoubtedly born of a focus group for single 20-something females.

From Netflix: “As Christmas approaches, attorney Kate Jordan travels to Vermont to oversee the sale of an inn, where she falls for a handsome but cursed ghost.”

I of course had some immediate questions, but — damn, you Netflix! — the research was solid. Ghosts, old-timey inns, Christmas, how could I resist?!

So, I watched it. But within minutes, I began to lose my shit.

To be clear, I have many, many issues with this film and Kate and Daniel (the ghost)’s relationship. However, these are the few I wrote down:

1  He’s a fucking ghost.

2  Not only is he a fucking ghost, he’s a fucking ghost with baggage. He’s dead, he’s cursed, he regularly haunts an inn, he’s pining over his ex-girlfriend who ended up marrying his brother. Hard pass.

3  He’s a dated ghost. He died 90+ years ago, so odds are, he’s sexist, more than a little racist and definitely not vaccinated. How the f is this girl going to introduce him to her friends and family? If you thought your MAGA Uncle was bad at Thanksgiving, can you imagine bringing around a wealthy white dude from 1901?

4  He’s a dick! He has 12 days with this girl, and he spends the first 3-4 days berating her. At what point do they fall in love? At what point does she think, “Man, I know this dude is dead, and also kind of a dick, but I think this could work.”

5  Syphilis. He definitely has it.

6  They barely know each other, and yet he forgoes eternal life in heaven with his former lady-love to live – and die again! – with a chick he’s known for 12 days. Twelve days! That’s still the infatuation period! What if, two months in, the hormones wear off and they realize they’re completely incompatible? How is he going to jump back into the dating pool? How is he going to explain himself to another potential mate?

New girl: “How are you still single?”

Daniel: “Well, I died. But then I came back to life for this girl because we thought we could make it work. Turns out, we’re just too different. Plus, she’s registered to vote.”

7  Does he age? Or will he stay the same forever, watching Kate slowly deteriorate beyond the point of Hollywood likability?

8  Is he sterile? Are they going to have kids? I hope not, because, again, HE’S. NOT. VACCINATED.

9  Wait, did she just pass out from kissing him? Never in my life have I passed out/fallen asleep while kissing someone. During sex, sure, but while making out standing up? Impossible.

10  This is a more general issue with the film, but how come we never see sappy romances about young, single dudes who “work too hard” to settle down and find love? Why is it always women who are confronted about their work ethic? Idk, maybe we work hard so we can avoid SLEEPING WITH DEAD PEOPLE.

Happy Holidays.

 

 

 

Carpool Karaoke

I don’t know what kind of person I am. I don’t think I’m a morning person, but I’m definitely not a night person. I like to be in bed by 10:30 but have been known to sleep well past noon. Also, I do not function without coffee. Like, at all.

Not quite morning people. Not quite night people.

I paint you this picture to illustrate my mindset the morning of Saturday, December 23. I had an early flight home for Christmas, so rather than take the train (which typically involves a few wrong trains before taking the right one), I decide to hail a Lyft.

At approximately 5:45 a.m., my driver pulls up, and, within seconds, I know I’m in trouble. He’s the chipper sort, and I can smell the sickly sweet remnants of Red Bull on his breath.

I sit in the front seat, not as to engage, but as to avoid vomiting all over his backseat. “I get carsick,” I tell him, setting the bar as low as humanly possible.

He asks what I do, where I’m going.

I tell him I’m a dog walker, and that I’m going home to Kentucky.

He asks if I’d like to start driving for Lyft. I say no, I get car sick. That I don’t like driving. And I don’t like driving with other people in the car. So, all around, a terrible fit.

He tells me it’s fun. That you get to talk to people – all kinds of people! – all night.

I cannot conjure a more perfect vision of hell, I think, so I nod and say, “Yeah, that must be interesting.”

He tells me I never asked him what he likes to do for fun.

I ask him what he likes to do for fun.

He says karaoke.

I ask him where he likes to do karaoke.

He says he’s never done it in public before.

I wonder how much longer I have until he abducts me.

He fiddles with some dials, and soon, his entire dash turns into a karaoke screen.

The proof.

“This one’s my favorite,” he says, cuing up Shania Twain’s “Man I Feel Like A Woman.”

I laugh politely. He’s so happy. And I’m so tired.

He asks me to sing along. I oblige, barely – talking the words rather than singing them.

He notices.

“Come on!” he says. “You know it!”

I tell him I’m tone-deaf.

He tells me it doesn’t matter.

I give him my worst.

He loves it.

“Right there! See, I heard it! You DO have a good voice!” He’d say whenever I’d land in the general vicinity of the note at hand.

Soon, he drops out of the song all together. I’m singing solo. He’s backing me up with the chorus. Aside from a few “Oohs,” “Ahhs,” and “Let’s go girls,” I’m totally and utterly alone. I’m so very embarrassed. Which is odd for me, really. I love karaoke. But this feels different. It feels vulnerable.

I look around the car to see if there are any cameras. Surely there are. Surely this is some sort of prank. And, if so, surely I can refuse the use of my footage, right?

I decide the best way out is an honorable decrescendo — a slow descent into silence. I begin to soften my voice until it becomes no more than a whisper. I then sigh heartily, as if I’m pleased with our work, and I’m eager to end on a high note. I clap my hands on my thighs for a final touch – a nonverbal “Well! That was fun! I must be off now! Ta-ta!”

It doesn’t translate.

“You don’t like this one? We’ll find another.”

He finds Spice Girls. Then Christmas songs. Then Mariah Carey, which becomes the climax of our carpool concert.

Every time I stop and try to strike up a conversation, he sings at me. He looks at me, locks eyes, and sings right into my soul.

This continues for the entirety of our 35 minute trip. By the time I arrive at Midway, I’m hoarse, exhausted and car-sick from reading the lyrics on the screen. I’m a little annoyed, honestly, until I realize something: I’ve been strugging to come up with blog topics, and this guy just gave me a gem.

So, thank you, dear Lyft driver. I hope you get more willing passengers in the New Year.

 

 

Tales of Christmas Past

Buster found ham under the Christmas tree

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.

Happy holidays.

My friends and I dressed up as a nativity scene for a "Tacky Christmas" party. The bars made us leave our shepherd's crooks outside...something about safety regulations.