It’s almost “Christmas,” which we somehow celebrate even though we are not religious except for Festivus. On Christmas eve, we gather with the relations of Mr. H, and we exchange one gift per person under $25 based on names drawn out of a hat. There is frequently food I can’t eat, such as a platter of meat injected with hormones and dairy byproducts. At midnight, the animals talk. They say “Liiiiiiisa, why are you eaaaaating meeee?”
Our own nuclear family traditions include not buying each other anything. We buy things for other people, sometimes. But not predictably. Just enough to introduce stress for the other party as to whether or not they need to buy something for us next year. I love it!
And we generally buy whatever it occurs to us to buy throughout the year. We are Hard to Shop For, I’ve been told. The other day, I bought a ybab a poncho since it is cold now, and she acts like sleeves were invented by government torture squads. The pointed hood makes her look like an adorable little KKK Grand Wizard. Why would we need anything else?
Maybe we should try other holidays, but if we can’t even get it together for one gift under $25, I don’t think I could handle eight nights of gifts. We should start doing Diwali instead. I like those almond sweeties. Christmas is just not festive enough, unless a certain relative comes with a handle jug of Canadian Club. I can’t wait for the airing of grievances, though.