Have a Holly, Molly Christmas

Here's another Christmas column from the archives. I wrote this one back in 2001, when Molly, our hefty miniature dachshund, was just a tiny wiener-shaped bundle of energy. She is now a large, football-shaped bundle of fat.

After a rough start, this Christmas was a pretty good one for my family. The “rough start” was produced by our new puppy, Molly, an incontinent miniature dachshund who somehow escaped from her authorized sleeping area after my wife and I settled down for a long winter’s nap. The tiny creature then did some stirring all through the house until she found an unauthorized pooping area in the hallway, where she defiantly deposited a special little Christmas gift for her new master, which I discovered with my bare left foot at exactly 6:17 a.m. “Peace on Earth, Goodwill Toward Puppies,” I said to myself as I hopped down the hall on my right foot. If she weren’t so cute, I’d send her to a detention facility for delinquent wiener dogs.

The rest of the day unfolded much like Christmases past.

As always, my wife and I broke our mutual promise to “not buy anything for each other.” She pretended to be mad and surprised when she opened her gift, and I did the same when I opened mine. Neither of us was actually mad or surprised, because we break our mutual promise every year. Sometimes, breaking promises is an essential part of a healthy marriage.

As always, I received another wallet, which I’ll add to my growing collection of wallets from previous Christmases. I usually get about four years of service from a good wallet. They last so long because I never have enough money to stretch and disfigure them. Since 1977, I’ve received twenty-five wallets, but I’ve worn out only six. My current supply will last until I’m 119, at which time I will probably not remember what to do with a wallet. Of course, if I live that long, I’ll receive another seventy-six wallets, which will bring my lifetime total to 101. Perhaps I’ll donate my extra wallets to men who really need them, like the mechanic who repairs my wife’s car. He probably needs a dozen to hold my former money.

As always, generous friends and family members came bearing gifts of delicious holiday goodies. We have enough sugary treats to satisfy every hypoglycemic person in North America. We have several decorative tins of something that might be homemade fudge. We have several brightly wrapped loaves of something that might be pumpkin bread or fruitcake. We have several colorful platters of something that might be an assortment of Christmas cookies. Soon we’ll have something that might be five pounds of extra fat on our butts.

We also received lots of “specialty coffee,” and I couldn’t be happier about it. I firmly believe that a day without coffee is like a day without caffeine. The bags of French Roast, which I love, will be empty by mid January. The bag of hazelnut coffee, which I grudgingly tolerate when nothing else is available, will be in the pantry until September, when I suddenly realize that we’ve consumed all of our other coffee. (Mark’s helpful holiday tip for exhausted parents: If you need a quick, delicious, satisfying breakfast that will provide plenty of energy for cleaning up unauthorized pooping areas, I recommend three large mugs of French Roast coffee, four large chunks of something that might be chocolate-covered almond brittle, and two hefty slices of something that might be banana-nut bread. But work fast, because the resulting burst of energy will last only 23 minutes. After that, you’ll sleep on the couch for several hours.)

The day’s most entertaining moments were provided by a bottle of extra-strength ginseng, a gift from a Korean friend. He said that drinking it every day would make me “strong and virile.” (He must think I’m currently weak and impotent.) Since a guy can never have too much strength and virility, I swallowed twice the recommended dose of the awful-tasting stuff. Several minutes later, I did not feel “strong and virile.” I felt sick and dizzy. I felt dumb and gullible. I felt pale and sweaty. Fortunately, I was able to counteract the ginseng’s effects by drinking more coffee and eating another slab of something that might be pecan pie. I then felt energetic and nervous. As I write this column, I feel irritable and sleepy.

Despite a disobedient puppy, unnecessary wallets and a bad batch of ginseng, I wouldn’t trade my Christmas for anything. I hope you can say the same thing about yours.

After writing this column, Mark Mayfield ate a large piece of something that might be a festive holiday cheese log.

This column is copyright protected. Permission to reprint or electronically reproduce it in whole or in part is expressly prohibited unless prior written consent is obtained from Mark Mayfield

A Christmas Carol

Here's a column I wrote back in 2001. Parents, share it with your spoiled, ungrateful teenagers.

SHOPPING FOR A CHRISTMAS TREE WITH TEENS? YULE BE SORRY

So there I am, minding my own business, watching “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” when a faceless being in a dark cloak floats into the living room.

“Are you the Grim Reaper?” I ask nervously, wondering if my recent chest pains were more than just indigestion. “Nope,” he replies in a strange, otherworldly voice. “Grim’s taking a few days off, but he asked me to tell you to keep eating those triple cheeseburgers and pepperoni pizzas. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past, and I’m here to show you this.”

Suddenly, the room fills with a vision of my excited, bright-eyed children, who can hardly wait to shop for our Christmas tree. “Can we please get our tree today, daddy?” they ask again and again. “Okay! We’ll get our stupid Christmas tree!” I reply, pretending to be annoyed by their pestering. (I’m actually just as excited as they are, but an effective father must occasionally exhibit a little holiday grouchiness, which is essential for raising respectful, well-behaved kids.)

We bundle up in our warmest coats and happily embark on our annual search for the perfect Christmas tree. On the road, the kids entertain themselves with loud off-key choruses of “Jingle Bells” and “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” At the tree lot, the real fun begins. Wired on complimentary hot chocolate and festive holiday cookies, the kids play a high-spirited game of hide-and-seek, accidentally knocking down a few trees in the process. I scold them, pretending to be angry at their rowdiness. Finally, after carefully examining every tree on the lot, we choose a beauty. Back at home, we merrily decorate our perfect tree while Bing, Perry, Nat and Andy serenade us with the world’s greatest Christmas songs.

The wonderful scene fades, and I’m now with the Ghost of Christmas Present, who shows me a troubling vision of an angry man (me) physically forcing his teenage children to go tree shopping. They’re obviously no longer interested in participating in an evening of family-oriented Christmas cheer. My daughter wants to stay home so she won’t miss her nightly phone call from her special friend, the one who has a voice lower than mine. My son, who’s developing his own low voice, wants to stay home so he can call his special friend, and ruin her father’s Christmas spirit. My sad wife looks at me and mumbles something about “the good old days.” I drive our pickup to the nearest tree lot, a dreary, undecorated, depressing place. There are no Christmas carolers. There’s no beautiful manger scene with live sheep. There’s no fake Santa Claus with miniature candy canes for the kids. And I’m almost certain that the burly, tattooed proprietor would attack me with his chain saw if I ask for complimentary hot chocolate and festive holiday cookies. After halfheartedly looking over the meager selection of trees, I grab one that is less ugly than the others.

“How about this one?” I ask, desperately hoping that somebody will reply, “No, dad! That’s a terrible tree! Let’s go somewhere else, somewhere with good trees.” But that didn’t happen.

“Yeah, that one’s fine,” says my uninterested daughter, who obviously wants to go home and talk with “Mr. Low Voice. “Can we go now?”

I glumly drag the tree to the cash register. Wham, bam, I pay the man. The entire tree-shopping experience takes less than five minutes.

As we drive home, I try to improve my mood by playing a CD of classic Christmas music. “Can’t we listen to the Dave Matthews Band instead?” asks the future Mrs. Low Voice. I lose control. “DON'T YOU KNOW THAT THE HERALD ANGELS ARE SINGING?! CAN’T YOU SPARE A FEW MINUTES TO ‘HARK?!’" The horrible vision is more than I can bear, and I begin to sob.

Suddenly, the Ghost of Christmas Future takes my hand and shows me a well-dressed sixty-something gentleman watching his two bright-eyed grandchildren play hide-and-seek in a cheerful, well-lit Christmas tree lot. He laughs heartily as they accidentally knock over a tree. He softly sings along as “White Christmas” plays over the loudspeakers. He sounds just like Bing Crosby. There’s something strangely familiar about this obviously intelligent, incredibly cool, unbelievably charming, remarkably fit grandfather who hasn't had a triple cheeseburger since Christmas of 2002. I realize that the man is me, and the grandchildren are mine.

I can hardly wait.

Mark Mayfield can also sing exactly like Perry Como.

Britney and Me

I have a fantasy about me and Britney Spears, and it's not of the titillating variety. It goes something like this: Britney and I are alone in an elevator when I turn to her and excitedly exclaim, "Hey, I know who you are!"

Obviously annoyed, she rolls her eyes in a gesture that clearly means, "Of course you know who I am. Everybody knows who I am."

At that point I say, "You were on the last episode of Cops, right? You're the inbred hillbilly crackhead from the trailer park who peed on yourself after the sheriff handcuffed you and your cross-eyed cousin, who also happens to be your boyfriend."

Then the elevator door opens and I walk away singing a Christina Aguilera song.

That would be so sweeeeet.