Mary, Christmas

I know the only acknowledgement I've made of the season was a snarky post about how office parties suck, but in truth, I adore Christmas even as a little child would. The vulgar, glitzy decorations speak to my white trash homo self and the prospect of getting presents is always ok by me. When we were first together, I had to explain, firmly, to R Man that although I am not materialistic (if you could see my wardrobe, you would know that is the god's own truth) I demand a big-ass pile of presents every Christmas. The actual contents don't matter, I would be just as happy with several pairs of underwear gaily wrapped up, as long as they were new. I just enjoy admiring the glittering pile and then unwrapping them. I should mention that my mother installed an unshakeable need in me to preserve wrapping paper, so I meticulously tease off the tape, neatly fold up the paper and then get down to the present. We have gift wrap from when we lived in New Orleans twenty years ago that I re-use every year. I am not pathological, shut up.

This year, I was actually willing to give him a pass on the mass o' presents rule, cause, you know, heart surgery a month ago and all that, what the hell? I can be a sport. God love him, he came through anyway, and now there's big boxes and little boxes all waiting for me, me, me. He is so sweet.

We're also both fond of Christmas trees, I regard them as the biggest cut flower arrangement you're ever going to have, but this year fighting our way to Home Depot and wrestling one home and then dolling it all up just seemed too much. Instead, we got a wreath at a florist down in the Castro and hung it up in the living room. It smells like Christmas and that's what counts.