Are You Ready to Die?

Have you made your funeral plans? Decided what do with your earthly remains? Not exactly a cocktail conversation, but it's something we all must--or should--think about before we actually kick the bucket. Otherwise, it's left to our family, and they'll put you in that dress you absolutely hated or bury you in some tacky, gilt coffin in a bleak cemetery next to a six-lane highway!

Not that you can do anything about it. You're dead, after all. You probably wouldn't even care, right? Nonetheless, these things do matter to us humans, at least while we're still alive and kicking.

So I've been thinking about my own demise and trying to make plans that reflect who I am and what I consider my values. I do believe that how we bury or otherwise dispose of ourselves accurately reflects what we think about life (and death) and shows what kind of person we were. Just ask any archaeologist.

I plan to walk you through my own decisions and thoughts as I go through this process, and I hope to make it a little humorous, whenever possible. Feel free to share if you've made plans--or why you haven't.

'Tis the Season to Visit the Cemetery
What set all this in motion was a visit with my dad over Christmas. We had an afternoon and nothing planned, so we decided to visit some nearby relatives---except they were all either sick or not home. So we're driving around the countryside trying to decide what to do next when my dad asks if he's ever shown me where his burial plot is. He hadn't, so we headed to the cemetery, which was close by (a disclaimer: the photo in this post is of a peaceful-looking cemetery in Dallas, Texas).

I thought it would be odd to go see where my dad will eventually end up, but it wasn't. It was actually comforting. He knew right where the plot was. We drove into the cemetery and right up to it. He explained that he had 2 plots, one for himself and one for his wife (although I'd be happy shooting her ashes out of a cannon, but that's another story!). He's had the plot for years, and it's paid for except the fees to open and close the plot. And the fees! Dying can be expensive, and I'll get to that.

Standing there looking at the plot was humbling, however, and a little sad. The plot is right next to a driveway through the cemetary and a sidewalk, so it was like condensing my dad's life into this small, nondescript square of earth. But the cemetery is rural, quiet and peaceful, and while he won't really care once he's in the ground, I think it would be a comforting place to revisit and remember him.

Dad wanted to stop by the cemetery office to check on his remaining payments, so off we went across the main street. The office was small but cheerfully decorated for the holiday with a Christmas tree and several red, leafy poinsettias. We spoke to a friendly woman who went through all the records with us. I took her business card so I'd have contact info. Dad seems healthy as a horse but he is in his early 80s now, so the truth is, his time on this earth is running out, and it's good to be prepared.

Everything checked out, and we left. It was helpful to see dad so relatively jovial about all this (I think he passed some of that on to me). And it got me to thinking about my own final resting place. Where did I want to be buried? Which cemetery? Did I want burial or cremation? A cremation plot or a columbarium? And what about a funeral or memorial service? And who would pay for all of this? I quickly realized that I had specific opinions about all of these questions, and also realized that I didn't want to leave it all to the whims of my relatives or just assume it would be paid for by the magic cash fairy.

Next time: Made up like Madame Tussaud's or oven-baked?

Are You Ready to Die?

Have you made your funeral plans? Decided what do with your earthly remains? Not exactly a cocktail conversation, but it's something we all must--or should--think about before we actually kick the bucket. Otherwise, it's left to our family, and they'll put you in that dress you absolutely hated or bury you in some tacky, gilt coffin in a bleak cemetery next to a six-lane highway!

Not that you can do anything about it. You're dead, after all. You probably wouldn't even care, right? Nonetheless, these things do matter to us humans, at least while we're still alive and kicking.

So I've been thinking about my own demise and trying to make plans that reflect who I am and what I consider my values. I do believe that how we bury or otherwise dispose of ourselves accurately reflects what we think about life (and death) and shows what kind of person we were. Just ask any archaeologist.

I plan to walk you through my own decisions and thoughts as I go through this process, and I hope to make it a little humorous, whenever possible. Feel free to share if you've made plans--or why you haven't.

'Tis the Season to Visit the Cemetery
What set all this in motion was a visit with my dad over Christmas. We had an afternoon and nothing planned, so we decided to visit some nearby relatives---except they were all either sick or not home. So we're driving around the countryside trying to decide what to do next when my dad asks if he's ever shown me where his burial plot is. He hadn't, so we headed to the cemetery, which was close by (a disclaimer: the photo in this post is of a peaceful-looking cemetery in Dallas, Texas).

I thought it would be odd to go see where my dad will eventually end up, but it wasn't. It was actually comforting. He knew right where the plot was. We drove into the cemetery and right up to it. He explained that he had 2 plots, one for himself and one for his wife (although I'd be happy shooting her ashes out of a cannon, but that's another story!). He's had the plot for years, and it's paid for except the fees to open and close the plot. And the fees! Dying can be expensive, and I'll get to that.

Standing there looking at the plot was humbling, however, and a little sad. The plot is right next to a driveway through the cemetary and a sidewalk, so it was like condensing my dad's life into this small, nondescript square of earth. But the cemetery is rural, quiet and peaceful, and while he won't really care once he's in the ground, I think it would be a comforting place to revisit and remember him.

Dad wanted to stop by the cemetery office to check on his remaining payments, so off we went across the main street. The office was small but cheerfully decorated for the holiday with a Christmas tree and several red, leafy poinsettias. We spoke to a friendly woman who went through all the records with us. I took her business card so I'd have contact info. Dad seems healthy as a horse but he is in his early 80s now, so the truth is, his time on this earth is running out, and it's good to be prepared.

Everything checked out, and we left. It was helpful to see dad so relatively jovial about all this (I think he passed some of that on to me). And it got me to thinking about my own final resting place. Where did I want to be buried? Which cemetery? Did I want burial or cremation? A cremation plot or a columbarium? And what about a funeral or memorial service? And who would pay for all of this? I quickly realized that I had specific opinions about all of these questions, and also realized that I didn't want to leave it all to the whims of my relatives or just assume it would be paid for by the magic cash fairy.

Next time: Made up like Madame Tussaud's or oven-baked?

Santa Brought Me "Donny & Marie!"

Well, actually my mom gave this DVD to me, but I was as excited as if Santa himself had come down the chimney (or wood stove, in our case) and left it for me. It was like being a kid again.

If you're younger than 40, you may not remember the 1970s TV gem "The Donny & Marie Show." It ran for a couple of years and featured the brother and sister team of Donny and Marie Osmond. It was so perfectly cheesy and wonderful. Variety acts by 70s celebrities, ice skating, corny banter between Donny and Marie, and Bob Mackie-designed gowns!

The DVD contains just a few select clips from each year, but I'm surprised to see just how talented these kids were. And Donny was such a heartthrob with those tight pants and that hair! My sister and I watched this religiously, and it inspired us to put own "shows" for my parents and their unsuspecting friends. We had a sliding glass door and a curtain that separated the den from the carport. We would stage our shows in the carport with the curtain closed and then open it for our "audience" in the den. So much fun!

And that sweet, sentimental tune they used to close their show every week still brings tears to my eyes: "May God keep you in his tender care, until he brings us together again. Good night, everybody!"

Santa Brought Me "Donny & Marie!"

Well, actually my mom gave this DVD to me, but I was as excited as if Santa himself had come down the chimney (or wood stove, in our case) and left it for me. It was like being a kid again.

If you're younger than 40, you may not remember the 1970s TV gem "The Donny & Marie Show." It ran for a couple of years and featured the brother and sister team of Donny and Marie Osmond. It was so perfectly cheesy and wonderful. Variety acts by 70s celebrities, ice skating, corny banter between Donny and Marie, and Bob Mackie-designed gowns!

The DVD contains just a few select clips from each year, but I'm surprised to see just how talented these kids were. And Donny was such a heartthrob with those tight pants and that hair! My sister and I watched this religiously, and it inspired us to put own "shows" for my parents and their unsuspecting friends. We had a sliding glass door and a curtain that separated the den from the carport. We would stage our shows in the carport with the curtain closed and then open it for our "audience" in the den. So much fun!

And that sweet, sentimental tune they used to close their show every week still brings tears to my eyes: "May God keep you in his tender care, until he brings us together again. Good night, everybody!"

A Racial Sit-In at the IHOP?

Ever find yourself in unwanted situations with parents, situations that you try desperately to avoid but nevertheless seem to seek you out? It's as if the Universe has a twisted sense of humor and is conspiring against you. Maybe there's a lesson here ... and maybe my skull is too thick to get it?

I stayed at my father's house overnight, and this morning I decided we should go to a pancake house for breakfast. See, my dad never keeps any food in his house. He is married, however, his wife lives 2 doors down in her deceased mother's house. Long story. Anyway, he usually eats at the other house or goes out. But even when I come to visit, he never has any food.

That's why I travel with my own food! I brought bagels to eat, since I knew I would be lucky to get breakfast. But the previous day at my younger sister's house, I had had a bagel--because she seems to share my father's preference for never planning for houseguests. (I must be adopted!)

Tired of bagels and warmed holiday leftovers, I suggested a pancake house. My dad agreed. He knew his wife liked one particular place, so he called her to ask for directions. It turned out to be just another International House of Pancakes (IHOP). Fine with me. Except here's where the Universe gets cheeky.

We're seated in a section that was enclosed in its own little room. And this truly was an "international" house of pancakes day. At two nearby tables were seated Hispanic families, all speaking Spanish. Another family came in right behind us. A family of Asian ethnicity was also seated nearby. Add to the mix at least four squealing toddlers.

The loud children bother me a tad, but I can deal. My father, however, cannot. But the children were the least of my problem. All you could hear was Spanish--and my dad is not known for his appreciation for diversity. Yes, he's your stereotypical white cracker who wants all non-English speakers shipped back to their home country. He blames immigrants for everything that's wrong in the U.S.

At least there were no African Americans in the room nor any mixed-race couples. (He once walked out of a restaurant because a young black man and white woman were seated next to us.)

He didn't say anything, but I could literally feel the tension coming from him. I tried to ignore it, to "deflect" his energy. I waited for the inevitable outburst. And I wondered why in the hell the Universe was doing this to me. Couldn't we simply enjoy pancakes without an incident? Why did we have to pick the most diverse IHOP in town?

The tipping point came when a large family was seated next to us. "Thank God they're white!" I thought. But, oh no, not that simple. They had a 8- or 9-year-old son with some degree of mental retardation, and the boy kept shouting, "Pancakes! Pancakes!" And when he wasn't bouncing in his seat and fidgeting, he was scribbling frantically on the placemat with a crayon.

I couldn't breathe. And I don't know if it was my own rising stress level, but it seemed the noise in the room was growing louder and louder. I finally let out a big sigh and mentioned the noise to dad. Fortunately, we were almost done eating. I chuckled a bit, trying to break the unbearable tension. Dad chuckled, too, and shook his head. He looked up at me, raised his brow and only said, "I ain't gonna say anything."

At least we had an understanding. I snatched the check and we went to pay--only to reach the cashier and see that the entrance was FULL of people waiting to be seated. You may be thinking, "why is that a problem?" Well, for most people, it wouldn't be. But, gentle reader, everyone waiting happened to be black.

It was as if my dad was cornered! He turned, headed for the door and said, "I'll be outside!"

It didn't end there. I knew he had been uncomfortable, so I tried to play it off with humor. I guess it worked somewhat. But still I had to listen to how the Hispanics (or "Spanians" as he says--WTF?) are taking over the city, taking "our" jobs and so on. And he said he wasn't ever going back to that IHOP again! Not because of the food but only because of who ate there. And he had to tell his wife later (she didn't say very much).

Guess I should've stuck with the damn bagels.

I'm angry and frustrated because my father's world is so small and so full of fears of his own making. But he's 82 and isn't going to change. He knows I feel differently but it doesn't stop him from making insensitive and boneheaded comments. And I have other friends and family who are intolerant and bigoted. Part of me wants to avoid them. Part of me wants to leave this lily-white corner of the planet and move to a much more diverse place. And part of me would love to piss everyone off my shacking up with a black or Hispanic lover!

It makes me ashamed of who I am and where I come from. It makes me want to do whatever I can to fight intolerance and bigotry. But how? My dad isn't going to change. Why do people have to be so ignorant, so fearful, so small-minded? And it's everywhere--in our politics, our churches, workplaces, bookstores, colleges, cities and the Internet.

Sure, I'm happy with how I handled this one little situation, but what good does it really do? If nothing else, thank goodness those people in IHOP were clueless about my dad's hatred; there were all able to enjoy their pancakes. I was not.

A Racial Sit-In at the IHOP?

Ever find yourself in unwanted situations with parents, situations that you try desperately to avoid but nevertheless seem to seek you out? It's as if the Universe has a twisted sense of humor and is conspiring against you. Maybe there's a lesson here ... and maybe my skull is too thick to get it?

I stayed at my father's house overnight, and this morning I decided we should go to a pancake house for breakfast. See, my dad never keeps any food in his house. He is married, however, his wife lives 2 doors down in her deceased mother's house. Long story. Anyway, he usually eats at the other house or goes out. But even when I come to visit, he never has any food.

That's why I travel with my own food! I brought bagels to eat, since I knew I would be lucky to get breakfast. But the previous day at my younger sister's house, I had had a bagel--because she seems to share my father's preference for never planning for houseguests. (I must be adopted!)

Tired of bagels and warmed holiday leftovers, I suggested a pancake house. My dad agreed. He knew his wife liked one particular place, so he called her to ask for directions. It turned out to be just another International House of Pancakes (IHOP). Fine with me. Except here's where the Universe gets cheeky.

We're seated in a section that was enclosed in its own little room. And this truly was an "international" house of pancakes day. At two nearby tables were seated Hispanic families, all speaking Spanish. Another family came in right behind us. A family of Asian ethnicity was also seated nearby. Add to the mix at least four squealing toddlers.

The loud children bother me a tad, but I can deal. My father, however, cannot. But the children were the least of my problem. All you could hear was Spanish--and my dad is not known for his appreciation for diversity. Yes, he's your stereotypical white cracker who wants all non-English speakers shipped back to their home country. He blames immigrants for everything that's wrong in the U.S.

At least there were no African Americans in the room nor any mixed-race couples. (He once walked out of a restaurant because a young black man and white woman were seated next to us.)

He didn't say anything, but I could literally feel the tension coming from him. I tried to ignore it, to "deflect" his energy. I waited for the inevitable outburst. And I wondered why in the hell the Universe was doing this to me. Couldn't we simply enjoy pancakes without an incident? Why did we have to pick the most diverse IHOP in town?

The tipping point came when a large family was seated next to us. "Thank God they're white!" I thought. But, oh no, not that simple. They had a 8- or 9-year-old son with some degree of mental retardation, and the boy kept shouting, "Pancakes! Pancakes!" And when he wasn't bouncing in his seat and fidgeting, he was scribbling frantically on the placemat with a crayon.

I couldn't breathe. And I don't know if it was my own rising stress level, but it seemed the noise in the room was growing louder and louder. I finally let out a big sigh and mentioned the noise to dad. Fortunately, we were almost done eating. I chuckled a bit, trying to break the unbearable tension. Dad chuckled, too, and shook his head. He looked up at me, raised his brow and only said, "I ain't gonna say anything."

At least we had an understanding. I snatched the check and we went to pay--only to reach the cashier and see that the entrance was FULL of people waiting to be seated. You may be thinking, "why is that a problem?" Well, for most people, it wouldn't be. But, gentle reader, everyone waiting happened to be black.

It was as if my dad was cornered! He turned, headed for the door and said, "I'll be outside!"

It didn't end there. I knew he had been uncomfortable, so I tried to play it off with humor. I guess it worked somewhat. But still I had to listen to how the Hispanics (or "Spanians" as he says--WTF?) are taking over the city, taking "our" jobs and so on. And he said he wasn't ever going back to that IHOP again! Not because of the food but only because of who ate there. And he had to tell his wife later (she didn't say very much).

Guess I should've stuck with the damn bagels.

I'm angry and frustrated because my father's world is so small and so full of fears of his own making. But he's 82 and isn't going to change. He knows I feel differently but it doesn't stop him from making insensitive and boneheaded comments. And I have other friends and family who are intolerant and bigoted. Part of me wants to avoid them. Part of me wants to leave this lily-white corner of the planet and move to a much more diverse place. And part of me would love to piss everyone off my shacking up with a black or Hispanic lover!

It makes me ashamed of who I am and where I come from. It makes me want to do whatever I can to fight intolerance and bigotry. But how? My dad isn't going to change. Why do people have to be so ignorant, so fearful, so small-minded? And it's everywhere--in our politics, our churches, workplaces, bookstores, colleges, cities and the Internet.

Sure, I'm happy with how I handled this one little situation, but what good does it really do? If nothing else, thank goodness those people in IHOP were clueless about my dad's hatred; there were all able to enjoy their pancakes. I was not.

Your Holly, Jolly Holiday Distraction!

Your Holly, Jolly Holiday Distraction!

Ridiculous/Brilliant Christmas Gift: Dick of Cards

You got it--dick, not deck. I had never heard of these before until a friend told me he received a di--errrr--deck last year for Christmas. Who thinks up these kind of things? I'm sure there are all kinds of puns for this special gift, but I'll just resist the urge. You can purchase your own deck here.

Ridiculous/Brilliant Christmas Gift: Dick of Cards

You got it--dick, not deck. I had never heard of these before until a friend told me he received a di--errrr--deck last year for Christmas. Who thinks up these kind of things? I'm sure there are all kinds of puns for this special gift, but I'll just resist the urge. You can purchase your own deck here.

Holly, Jolly Holiday Post of the Day: Your Favorite Christmas Memory

While posting on my favorite Christmas gifts, I began recalling other special holiday memories. Here are a few that stand out:

1. I heard Santa! That's right--I was very young, and my mom was trying to get me to go to sleep on Christmas Eve. Mom was in the room, and I was wide awake in bed. I swear I heard something thump up on the roof--like a sleigh pulled by reindeer landing with Old Saint Nick! I asked, "Is that Santa?" Ever the sly one, my mom answered, "Yes! And you'd better get to sleep or he won't leave any presents!"

2. Hamsters, carols and lights, oh my! I loved playing Christmas music on our gigantic record player/television console. The sleeve of one record I had folded out into this beautiful pop-up manger scene, complete with angels, shepherds and the baby Jesus. It was one of my favorite things until it began to fall apart from all the years of constant folding and unfolding. Anyway, I would play the record ("What Child Is This?" was a favorite song) while sitting in the big easy chair next to the Christmas tree (my mom always used multi-colored lights). One year I had a hamster (forget its name) that I would carry around the house on my shoulder. He was docile and friendly, and I just remember sitting in that chair, with the music and lights on, letting my hamster run all over me and the chair. Perfectly content.

3. Trucks, gingerbread and hungry kitty cats! Years later and living on my own, it was Christmas Eve. My sweet kitty that passed away earlier this year was only 6 years old. I decided that year to make a gingerbread house to take with me to my family's house to share. But then my old Toyota Corolla died on me. Wouldn't start. Nada. I needed a car to get home, so I was able to buy a brand-new Tacoma pick-up (the dealership was trying to clear the lot for the end of the year, so I got a great deal). At some point between getting the truck and baking the gingerbread, I went to my apartment to find that my cat had eaten Christmas ribbon--and shit all over the place!

Wonderful. Except, I didn't know she had eaten ribbon. I feared the worst! So I had to rush the cat to the emergency vet and leave her for a couple of days because I was going out of town and couldn't leave her alone not knowing her condition (goodbye Christmas bonus!). And because of all the hullabaloo, my gingerbread burnt! Darn cat. But in the end, all turned out well. The truck was fun to drive, the cat lived--and the next year, I made a fantastic gingerbread house.

What are your favorite holiday memories?

Holly, Jolly Holiday Post of the Day: Your Favorite Christmas Memory

While posting on my favorite Christmas gifts, I began recalling other special holiday memories. Here are a few that stand out:

1. I heard Santa! That's right--I was very young, and my mom was trying to get me to go to sleep on Christmas Eve. Mom was in the room, and I was wide awake in bed. I swear I heard something thump up on the roof--like a sleigh pulled by reindeer landing with Old Saint Nick! I asked, "Is that Santa?" Ever the sly one, my mom answered, "Yes! And you'd better get to sleep or he won't leave any presents!"

2. Hamsters, carols and lights, oh my! I loved playing Christmas music on our gigantic record player/television console. The sleeve of one record I had folded out into this beautiful pop-up manger scene, complete with angels, shepherds and the baby Jesus. It was one of my favorite things until it began to fall apart from all the years of constant folding and unfolding. Anyway, I would play the record ("What Child Is This?" was a favorite song) while sitting in the big easy chair next to the Christmas tree (my mom always used multi-colored lights). One year I had a hamster (forget its name) that I would carry around the house on my shoulder. He was docile and friendly, and I just remember sitting in that chair, with the music and lights on, letting my hamster run all over me and the chair. Perfectly content.

3. Trucks, gingerbread and hungry kitty cats! Years later and living on my own, it was Christmas Eve. My sweet kitty that passed away earlier this year was only 6 years old. I decided that year to make a gingerbread house to take with me to my family's house to share. But then my old Toyota Corolla died on me. Wouldn't start. Nada. I needed a car to get home, so I was able to buy a brand-new Tacoma pick-up (the dealership was trying to clear the lot for the end of the year, so I got a great deal). At some point between getting the truck and baking the gingerbread, I went to my apartment to find that my cat had eaten Christmas ribbon--and shit all over the place!

Wonderful. Except, I didn't know she had eaten ribbon. I feared the worst! So I had to rush the cat to the emergency vet and leave her for a couple of days because I was going out of town and couldn't leave her alone not knowing her condition (goodbye Christmas bonus!). And because of all the hullabaloo, my gingerbread burnt! Darn cat. But in the end, all turned out well. The truck was fun to drive, the cat lived--and the next year, I made a fantastic gingerbread house.

What are your favorite holiday memories?

Santa Wears a Speedo?

Ok, technically you can't see the Speedo on this guy here, but I liked the pic anyway. Boston held its annual Santa Speedo Run over the weekend. It's a fun (albeit cold) time for charity. And a lot of the guys (and gals) fill out their Speedos quite nicely!

I can't imagine something like this happening near me. Participants would probably be rounded up and sent to jail or an asylum! Ah well...

Here to more Christmas bacchanalia! See more pics at Boston.com or via BosGuy.

Santa Wears a Speedo?

Ok, technically you can't see the Speedo on this guy here, but I liked the pic anyway. Boston held its annual Santa Speedo Run over the weekend. It's a fun (albeit cold) time for charity. And a lot of the guys (and gals) fill out their Speedos quite nicely!

I can't imagine something like this happening near me. Participants would probably be rounded up and sent to jail or an asylum! Ah well...

Here to more Christmas bacchanalia! See more pics at Boston.com or via BosGuy.

Musical Toilet Paper and Other Horrible Christmas Novelties and Gifts

We've all seen them, those ridiculous Christmas novelties that appear this time of year. Normal, everyday objects are Santa-fied and bedecked with a holiday motif as a lure to get gullible shoppers to part with their cash. These gifts can be lots of fun--until the joke's on you!

Then there are those just plain awful gifts you receive from your loved ones. "Really, you SHOULDN'T have." I'll get to that shortly.

My friend Rebecca told me about how she and all her siblings and their families were home for Christmas one year. Someone had bought their parents a little device that you slip into the toilet paper roll which plays Christmas carols each time it's used. "Jingle" while you tinkle, anyone? She said it was cute for a while--and then the unthinkable happened. Several of them caught a stomach bug, which meant frequent and prolonged trips to the bathroom! It was bad enough to be sick, but then they had to hear "Jingle Bells" over and over again, alerting everyone in the house that, yes, they were back on the toilet again. Nice.

The Worst Christmas Gift I've Ever Received
Sure, I know it's the thought that allegedly counts, but I sometimes think it's better to receive no gift at all than to have to endure the painful attempt to thank someone for those unexpected and random gifts you'll never, ever use.

For example, several years ago my family was opening presents on Christmas Day when one of my sisters handed me a gift bag. Her gifts have never been extravagant, but she always seemed to find something useful or thoughtful. I think she created a new category that year, one called "hideous." So I pull out the colored tissue paper and then reach inside. I wish I had a photo of this thing.

Technically, it was a pen/pencil holder--but elevated to aesthetic heights heretofore unimagined. Someone had taken a perfectly good piece of wood, stripped off the real bark, polished it all up and then drilled several holes in it for pens and pencils. That would've been ok. But no. Then they wrapped it in fake, papery "bark" so that it now sort of resembled the real tree it once was. Then a sky blue ribbon with little cutesy flowers was glued on. Then a bow of the same fabric was also glued on--separately. The manufacturer couldn't even tie a real bow!

As I beheld this wonder, wondering what I was going to do with it and how to stifle my shock and disbelief, my sister said, "I thought you could put it in your office!" Not on your life, sweetie. Like it or not, how you accessorize your desk says a lot about you to your co-workers. It was still early in my publishing career, and I really didn't want the reputation as the resident Holly Hobbie Craft Queen.

So I fumbled my way through the forced "thank you," and that abomination was relegated to the work shed. Ever practical, my partner found a use for the gift after all! I tore off the ribbon and bow and the fake bark, leaving a relatively respectable and perfectly handy Screwdriver Holder! So, thanks sis, but I will forever be suspicious of your gift-buying skills!

What was the worst Christmas gift you ever received?

Musical Toilet Paper and Other Horrible Christmas Novelties and Gifts

We've all seen them, those ridiculous Christmas novelties that appear this time of year. Normal, everyday objects are Santa-fied and bedecked with a holiday motif as a lure to get gullible shoppers to part with their cash. These gifts can be lots of fun--until the joke's on you!

Then there are those just plain awful gifts you receive from your loved ones. "Really, you SHOULDN'T have." I'll get to that shortly.

My friend Rebecca told me about how she and all her siblings and their families were home for Christmas one year. Someone had bought their parents a little device that you slip into the toilet paper roll which plays Christmas carols each time it's used. "Jingle" while you tinkle, anyone? She said it was cute for a while--and then the unthinkable happened. Several of them caught a stomach bug, which meant frequent and prolonged trips to the bathroom! It was bad enough to be sick, but then they had to hear "Jingle Bells" over and over again, alerting everyone in the house that, yes, they were back on the toilet again. Nice.

The Worst Christmas Gift I've Ever Received
Sure, I know it's the thought that allegedly counts, but I sometimes think it's better to receive no gift at all than to have to endure the painful attempt to thank someone for those unexpected and random gifts you'll never, ever use.

For example, several years ago my family was opening presents on Christmas Day when one of my sisters handed me a gift bag. Her gifts have never been extravagant, but she always seemed to find something useful or thoughtful. I think she created a new category that year, one called "hideous." So I pull out the colored tissue paper and then reach inside. I wish I had a photo of this thing.

Technically, it was a pen/pencil holder--but elevated to aesthetic heights heretofore unimagined. Someone had taken a perfectly good piece of wood, stripped off the real bark, polished it all up and then drilled several holes in it for pens and pencils. That would've been ok. But no. Then they wrapped it in fake, papery "bark" so that it now sort of resembled the real tree it once was. Then a sky blue ribbon with little cutesy flowers was glued on. Then a bow of the same fabric was also glued on--separately. The manufacturer couldn't even tie a real bow!

As I beheld this wonder, wondering what I was going to do with it and how to stifle my shock and disbelief, my sister said, "I thought you could put it in your office!" Not on your life, sweetie. Like it or not, how you accessorize your desk says a lot about you to your co-workers. It was still early in my publishing career, and I really didn't want the reputation as the resident Holly Hobbie Craft Queen.

So I fumbled my way through the forced "thank you," and that abomination was relegated to the work shed. Ever practical, my partner found a use for the gift after all! I tore off the ribbon and bow and the fake bark, leaving a relatively respectable and perfectly handy Screwdriver Holder! So, thanks sis, but I will forever be suspicious of your gift-buying skills!

What was the worst Christmas gift you ever received?

Krampus Is Coming to Town!

Nothing says holiday cheer like a drunk guy in a goat mask scaring your children! At least, that's what some Europeans like to do this time of year. Supposedly an incubus who pals around with Santa, Krampus likes to frighten children and rattle rusty chains and bells. Imagine that while Santa is leaving presents under the tree, Krampus is raiding the liquor cabinet.

This sounds a bit like Halloween and Christmas all at once (fun!). People dress up like a devil/goat creature, and parents let them scare the children. Then they invite the Krampus inside, and everyone drinks. Excellent--no presents involved! In some cases, there's even a little light beating administered, which all involved seem to enjoy. Here's one guy's account of witnessing Krampus in Austria.

Those wacky Europeans. They have all the fun while us Yanks continue to suffer from a legacy of Puritan guilt! But maybe not for much longer. Krampus is making its way to the U.S.! Naturally, San Francisco is leading the way in a return to more gleeful pagan celebrations.

Krampus Is Coming to Town!

Nothing says holiday cheer like a drunk guy in a goat mask scaring your children! At least, that's what some Europeans like to do this time of year. Supposedly an incubus who pals around with Santa, Krampus likes to frighten children and rattle rusty chains and bells. Imagine that while Santa is leaving presents under the tree, Krampus is raiding the liquor cabinet.

This sounds a bit like Halloween and Christmas all at once (fun!). People dress up like a devil/goat creature, and parents let them scare the children. Then they invite the Krampus inside, and everyone drinks. Excellent--no presents involved! In some cases, there's even a little light beating administered, which all involved seem to enjoy. Here's one guy's account of witnessing Krampus in Austria.

Those wacky Europeans. They have all the fun while us Yanks continue to suffer from a legacy of Puritan guilt! But maybe not for much longer. Krampus is making its way to the U.S.! Naturally, San Francisco is leading the way in a return to more gleeful pagan celebrations.

Santas On the Loose!

I've heard of SantaCon before and would love to find a way to participate. You basically dress up like Ol' Saint Nick, join hundreds of other Santas and race around town dancing, singing, carousing and drinking together. Some bars even waive their cover or provide free drinks for the Santas! And there's no agenda--except fun. FUN! Remember that?

Check here and here to see if Santa is coming to a city near you!

(photo is of a 2005 SantaCon in Portland, OR)

Santas On the Loose!

I've heard of SantaCon before and would love to find a way to participate. You basically dress up like Ol' Saint Nick, join hundreds of other Santas and race around town dancing, singing, carousing and drinking together. Some bars even waive their cover or provide free drinks for the Santas! And there's no agenda--except fun. FUN! Remember that?

Check here and here to see if Santa is coming to a city near you!

(photo is of a 2005 SantaCon in Portland, OR)