Christmas peeve

Now I’m no Ebenezer Scrooge, but I’ll admit I’m not happy about Christmas. It was supposed to be different this year. All of us back together again. Like a reunited band.

Even the Spice Girls managed to do that.

Sadly, to mangle an infamous quote from John Belushi’s character Jake in the 1980 movie, “The Blues Brothers”: “We’re not getting the band back together.”

As of today, we’re staying home alone with our brand new 6.5-foot, pre-lit slim tree sporting its spectacular flickering starburst light topper. There are a few presents under this artificial awesomeness. And a stuffed gnome we named Homey.

Unlike past years, we have put up fewer holiday decorations, except for some favorites, including an adorable 1964 photo of me held by my late godfather, Ronnie, who always played Santa when I was a kid. He made me so nervous that I eventually cried and/or picked my nose. C’mon, I was 4.

Then there’s the oversized burgundy velveteen stocking hung on the basement door with care that reads, “I’ve been very, very, very NICE.” On the back? “I’ve been very, very, very NAUGHTY.”

Not us. We’ve done everything right, following the CDC, Dr. Fauci and Big Gretch. (That’s Michigan’s Gov. Whitmer, for you out-of-state readers.)

We are fully vaccinated and boosted. We wear masks when we’re out but indoors. Heck, we wear masks in our own home sometimes. Like last week when two unmasked, unvaccinated young dudes appeared at our door to install a new water heater.

“Oh, did you want us to wear a mask?” one of them asked upon seeing only the top half of our faces.

“Um, yeah, we do, if you don’t mind,” we answer, holding back Madison, our senior Havanese reportedly known to nip at blue-bootied repairmen.

Good girl.

I’m getting off track again. We were addressing my uncharacteristic disillusionment for the upcoming holidays.

According to my incomparable source Mr. Googly, Christmas was originally a pagan mid-winter celebration of still being alive in the dead of winter in the dark and cold. Christians, it is written, co-opted it to gain converts. All biblical accounts suggest Jesus was actually born in the spring.

Well, now. What goes around comes around, eh? Still being alive in the dead of winter.

And then last week I spotted this USA Today headline: “Bishop sorry for saying Santa isn’t real, red suit is Coca-Cola scheme.”

What? That’s horrible. You know I would have written a much shorter, punchier headline.

So, this Italian bishop dropped the bombshell of all bombshells by telling the children Father Christmas was a hoax? All in the name of commercialism and Coke?

The gist: Bishop Antonio Staglianò of Noto in Sicily publicly apologized after his ill-advised comments drew major backlash last week. The bishop shocked schoolchildren by telling them that Santa Claus wasn’t real. He was speaking on the Feast of Saint Nicholas – the initial inspiration for the giving Santa Claus – about the commercialization of Christmas deflating the true religious meaning.

“No, Santa Claus does not exist,” Staglianò said. “In fact, I would add that the red of the suit he wears was chosen by Coca-Cola exclusively for advertising purposes.”

Because when I see red, I always assume it’s about Coke.

The comments went viral, and, as even folks at the Diocese of Noto know (knows?), their PR flack posted an apology on Facebook, including this spin:

“If we can all draw a lesson, young or old, from the figure of Santa Claus (which originates with Bishop St. Nicholas), it is this: Fewer gifts to ‘create’ and ‘consume’ and more ‘gifts’ to share.”

Like any good lapsed retired Catholic, I dread gift giving simply for the sake of gift giving. It’s not about the presents. We give what we have, and then we share. And bring joy, which brings hope.

I’m all for peace, comfort and joy, and even glee, just not when the willfully unvaccinated affect me and thee.

Instead of being sad and cynical like Mr. Scrooge, I choose to be grateful for still being alive in the dead of winter after nearly two years of a still-raging pandemic that has killed more than 800,000 Americans.

Astounding. Unthinkable. Also hard to fathom that we are about to enter the third year of this madness.

And to think back in March 2020, they said it was going to be just a few months to get back to normal. By the summer, they said. Or by fall. Or … by Christmas.

But we didn’t. The band isn’t back together. Not then. Not now. Not ever? I sure hope I’m wrong.

A week from today on Christmas, we’ll don our gay apparel, crack open Rebecca’s homemade caramel corn and toast the New Year with a shot of traditional Moose Juice. Or two.

Then we’ll open our gifts. And thank God we’re still here to do so.

Merry Christmas!