From the monthly archives:

December 2016

Next Year

by Marinka on December 25, 2016

I’m not a mathematical genius, but if everything goes well, I will be 50 in 2017. It’s hard to believe, since most days I feel like I’ve been 50 for years, but maybe it’s just because I’m wise beyond my years. You’re probably nodding along, and this is why I like you. Well, one of the reasons. The other is that you didn’t vote for Trump. If you did vote for him, I don’t like you. But don’t take it personally, I also don’t like fascism, neo-Nazis (or old school Nazis for that matter) and French manicures. But what I loathe, loathe, I tell you, are French pedicures and Trump. And not necessarily in that order.

But this isn’t a post about him.
It’s a post about me.

This year, the Guy I Went to Ireland With and I had a Serious Conversation. Probably more than one, but at my advanced age, who the hell can remember. The Serious Conversation was about the fact that we don’t have a Christmas tree. His point was two-fold. Number one: He reminded me that I am Jewish and Jews don’t celebrate Christmas. And Number two: He pointed out that while we are both blessed with this great love affair that has Cupid patting himself on the back and/or using one of his arrows as a back-scratcher, we don’t live in the same apartment so I can get my own Christmas tree in my own apartment and maybe an oak tree, too, if I am some sort of an arborist all of a sudden.

My rebuttal is that while he is technically correct on both points, I don’t see what that has to do with anything because “facts” are now “meaningless” to “me”.

My position is that even though Jews don’t celebrate Christmas, Soviet-era Jews celebrate the New Year, which they usher in with a Christmas tree (“yolka” or the “Green tree”- perhaps to differentiate it from those aubergine trees some people are so fond of). And second of all, I know that I can put up whatever I want in my own apartment, but if there’s one thing I learned from Putin, it’s the love of annexation. It’s my heritage. It’s in my blood. It’s my right. So, yes, I can have the Christmas tree in my own apartment, but I want to have it in the apartment of the Guy I Went to Ireland With, because Christmas trees come with Falling Christmas Tree Needles and he has a better vacuum cleaner than I do, and also I don’t want that thing at my place. Have you ever tried getting rid of one? Disposing of a body would be easier. Case in point, there’s a recognition for friends who would help you bury a body but not one for friends who would help you get rid of a Christmas tree. Not a coincidence.

We compromised, as all loving couples do, and he is now a proud owner of a Christmas wreath.I can’t tell you how many hours of joy it has brought us! And the reason that I can’t is because it was probably all of 15 minutes.

But I’m not the kind of person who measures joy in terms of time. Or measures anything in terms of anything else, apparently, because I grew up during a time when it was ok for girls to suck at math.

And yet, I suspect things will be different next time this year. For one, I will be older. Fifty, unless my math is way off. So when I speak, it will be as a Woman of an Certain Age Who Is Revered in Our Society. And when I insist on a Christmas tree, it will be backed by a new Constitutional amendment that every household must have one. But there better not be any French pedicure legislation. Because we all have a breaking point.

Happy Holidays!
See you next year!