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.

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