Author: Shay

I get that the holidays are hard for some people.  Especially for people that have lost loved ones, or are going through illness or divorce.  But I don’t understand why people who have no obvious reason, claim to hate Christmas.

Like my friend Cheryl.  She’s loud and proud about not celebrating Christmas.

“It’s just a holiday created by greedy corporations.” She proclaimed one afternoon while we were baking cookies for school.

“I doubt there were corporate marketers at the birth of Christ.” I said decked out in my Christmas sweater, twinkling light necklace , my face painted to look like Rudolph.

“Who do you think the wise men were?  They came bearing gifts with the expectation you would buy the rest of the stuff in their camel bags.”

“Well, I love Christmas.” I said wistfully.  “The decorating, Christmas movies, caroling. Well, not caroling so much; have you ever heard me sing?  Oh, and we have a tradition that every Christmas we watch Holiday Inn.”

“That’s disgusting.” She said. “I bet you have one of those Elf on a Shelf’s too.”

“We do!” I said excited, then remembered this would probably be the last year of magic.  “It was a lot of fun when the kids were little. But our youngest was so devastated when we told her there was no Easter Bunny, no St. Patrick’s Day Leprechaun, no Flag Day Fairy-“

“Flag Day Fairy?” she asked cutting me off.

“Yeah, you know, he goes around putting flags in the ground to honor all the soldiers that don’t have someone to remember them.”

Cheryl stopped her assault on the Christmas tree cookies that had so much frosting they looked like Abominable Snowmen that had molded.

“Where did you grow up?” she asked cautiously.

“I’m an army brat, I grew up all over.”

“That explains it.  Wait, isn’t your daughter like sixteen?  And she still believes –”

“Jiminy Christmas!” I yelled before she could blurt out something about Santa. It worked, but had the added effect of her squirting frosting across the kitchen which landed on my little dog’s head.  Fortunately, my big dog quickly lick his head like an ice cream cone.

“She’s fifteen. And we’re going to tell her right after Christmas.” I whispered.   “Next year.” Cheryl started to say something, but instead switched to putting mouths on the Santa cookies.

I assume she intended to make them look like they were saying “ho ho ho” but they looked more like Mrs. Clause and the Surprise Emoji had a baby.

Baby It’s Cold Outside came on the radio sending Cheryl into another Christmas fit.

“There’s a song that should be outlawed.”

“It’s cute.” I said defensively.

“Have you ever listened to the words?”

We stopped talking and listened to the song a moment.

So really I’d better scurry (beautiful please don’t hurry)
But maybe just a half a drink more (put some records on while I pour)                  The neighbors might think (baby, it’s bad out there)
Say what’s in this drink? (no cabs to be had out there)

“The guy’s a letch!  She’s trying to leave and he’s slipping drugs into her drink!”

“What? No!” I said, but remembered my kids had said the same thing since they were in preschool.  How could I have missed that growing up?

For the next fifteen minutes we worked absorbed in our own thoughts. Cheryl probably worrying about my rose colored glasses when it comes to Christmas.  For me, I realized Cheryl must have suffered some traumatic Christmas experience like Neil in “The Santa Claus” who didn’t get his Weenie Whistle when he was three.  What terrible injustice did Cheryl experience that could reverberate well into her forties?

It was going to take some detective work, but I was determined to help turn her into a Christmas lover.  That didn’t come out right, but you know what I mean.

It seems Cheryl had an agenda of her own.  After she left I found our boy and girl Elf on a Shelf embracing each other on top of the Menorah holding each others butts.

My friend, Carmen got a part time job over the holidays for some extra Christmas cash.

“I thought it would be fun.” She began, and I knew I was in for a whine and dine.  Thankfully, she only had a thirty minute lunch break, so it couldn’t drag on too long.

“The teenagers are the worst, always calling me ma’am.” She continued.

“How disrespectful.” I said sarcastically.

“I know, right?” she responded, missing the sarcasm completely.  “Hey, you remember my son’s third grade teacher?”

“The one who told you she didn’t like your son at Meet the Teacher day?” I asked.

“I can’t believe you remembered that! She-”

“Who could forget that?  Her name was, wait, don’t tell me.  It’s Miller – no, Milner.  Wait, that’s not right. But it does start with an M.”

“L.” she corrected.

“L? Are you sure? I could have sworn it was an ‘m.’”

“It’s-“

“No!  Don’t tell me. I know this.” I continued, trying to solve the mystery. “Lester. Little. Lemer. Lettuce.”

“Shay.” She cut in.

“No! I got this! Lor –i-ta-nem.” I said sounding out possibilities.

Carmen rolled her eyes.

“Okay, give me a hint.  But don’t tell me.” I said to appease her.

“It rhymes with ‘cotton.’”

“Cotton?  Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?” I asked doubtfully.

“Yes!  Mrs.  Lau-”

“Don’t say it!” I yelled, covering my ears so I wouldn’t hear. “La-la-la-la.”

“What are you doing?”  she asked trying to hide her face as other people in the deli looked over at us.

“Just give me a second.” I said, taking my hands from my ears confident she wasn’t going to give away the answer.  “Okay, what do we know?  It was your son’s third grade teacher.  She told you she didn’t like him.  And, her name starts with the letter ‘L.’”

Carmen said nothing and shoved half a drumstick in her mouth.  Which meant she was either annoyed or very hungry.  Another mystery, but I didn’t want to split my focus, so I put it from my mind.

“Oh, AND, it rhymes with cotton.  Although, I’m not sure that part is right.” I said, to which Carmen may have rolled her eyes again.  I couldn’t be sure because I was focusing hard on my mind’s eye.  Or is it, “in” my mind’s eye? Ah, curses, another mystery to solve!

“I’ve got it! Larson.” I proudly proclaimed.

“No.”

“Marson? Parson? Tarson?” I fired off as she continued shaking her head and chewing.

“Those don’t even start with an ‘L.’” she pointed out.

“Okay, give me another hint.”

“It sounds like Daughton.” She offered, finishing off her lunch.

“Sounds like Daughton, but begins with an L.” I repeated slowly.

Carmen’s contact must have come out, because she banged her forehead on the table several times looking for it. Which surprisingly enough, worked because they seemed to be in her eyes now.

“I gotta get going.” She said gathering her trash onto the tray.

“Alright.  Just tell me.” I said giving in.

“Laughton.”

“Oh, Mrs. Laughton! Yeah, I remember her. She was so nice.” I said with a smile remembering her craggy old face.

I realized I hadn’t even started eating, but didn’t feel like I should languish since Carmen had to get back to work.  I tossed my hamburger in my purse and shoved most of the fries in my mouth, throwing the rest on her tray of trash.

“Wha’ abow’ her?” I managed to ask, spewing a marginal amount of French fries in the process.

“She just dinged your car in the parking lot.” She said.  “Happy holidays!”

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I like people.  And I like meeting new people.  But I don’t think that’s the same thing as networking. I was talking with a friend of mine at lunch before leaving for a conference involving “networking.”

“The fact that it has the word ‘work’ in it, is an indication, it’s not supposed to be fun.  Am I right, or am I right?” I asked.

“Oh, you’re right, girl. But you gotta know how to work it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“I’m just saying, networking is about gettin’ out there and meetin’ the right people.”

“I can network, I just don’t like to.” I said defensively.

“Hmm-humm.” She said with one of those “Girl, you are lying through your teeth” side smirks that involves a half cocked eyebrow.

“I can! I’m actually pretty good at it.” I said lying through my teeth.

Now, a polite friend would have let it drop there, both of us knowing it wasn’t true, but Evette is not one of those friends.  She’s the friend you go to when you REALLY want to know the truth, because she can lay it out like a chemistry teacher breaking down the periodic chart with scientific truths and charged chemical reactions!

“Tell me about one of your networking successes.” She demanded.

Ten minutes later I finally blurted out “I talked to Carol Burnette!”

“You did not!” she began.

“I did too.  Remember, it was at the Fox Theatre ten years ago and a few of us talked to her after her program…” I continued with revisionist history firmly in place.

I could see the gears spinning as she tried to recall what I told her all those years ago.

“You’re talking ‘bout the time she took questions from the audience and you were up in the second dress circle?”

“It may have been.  I don’t remember.” I said standing to search for the waiter.

“And you yelled out a question while she was still talking?”

“I didn’t- it – the microphone wasn’t working!” I explained.

“Oh that’s right.” She agreed and proceeded to laugh loudly as she retold the story.  “That’s why you started yelling!  And, the security thought you were a heckler and tried to have you removed!”

I gave up looking for the waiter and sat down, hoping her laugh fest would soon pass.

“I think I know what your problem is.” She said seriously.  “You don’t know what networking means.”

“Networking means talking to people you don’t know, so you can sell them something they don’t want, while trying not to be boring or intoxicated.” I said, confidently regurgitating a networking 101 blog I read.

For some reason she thought this was hysterical and fell into another fit of laughter, drawing the attention of a friend of ours entering the restaurant.

“Evette!  Shay!  Hi.  What’s so funny?” Kimberly asked coming over to join us.

“It’s nothing.” I said, spotting the waiter coming from the kitchen and waived profusely.

“Shay thinks yelling at someone on stage is networking.” Evette said laughing.

“Like when you heckled Carol Burnett?” Kimberly asked, trying to understand.

“What? No! She’s just – she’s joking. See how she’s laughing?  How’s Benjamin?” I asked Kimberly, trying to change the subject.

“I don’t know. I just don’t think this long distance romance is going to work.” She said thoughtfully.

“Long distance? I thought you lived together.” I said.

“We do.”

Evette stopped laughing and we both looked at Kimberly confused.

“It’s the long distance romance, that’s the problem.” She reiterated.  When we continued to look dumbfounded, she whispered “We’re only having sex once a month. Don’t you think that’s a pretty long distance in between?”

Evette and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.  If networking were as easy as getting together with friends and laughing at each other, I’d do it all the time.

Epilogue: My networking skills failed once again while at the Austin Film Festival when I only managed to network with a homeless man that wandered in and a call girl looking to get “discovered.”

I offered to do some volunteer work with a friend of mine the other day when our conversation took a hard turn.  (On a side note, next time I’ll do the driving because riding with her took ten years off my life and not in a good way.)

“Do I look alright to you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?  Like if I was a lesbian?” she asked beginning to check me out.

“No. I mean, do I look weird?”

“You look like you always do.” She shrugged.

“You mean I’ve always looked hideous?”

While she slammed on the gas to merge into traffic I flipped down the visor to look in the mirror.

“Have I always had that vein in my temple?  And that scar on my lip?  What are these lines around my eyes?  I think I have a skin condition.” I said in rapid succession.

“Those are smile lines.” She said, trying to sound positive.

“Oh my God, do I smile that much?  That’s it, I have to stop watching comedies.  Wait a minute, smile lines?  That’s code for crows feet, isn’t it?” I said accusingly.  “What’s next? Double chins?”

I flipped the visor back up, stretched my neck and began slapping my chin.

“What are you doing?” she asked swerving back into her lane.

“It’s supposed to keep the double chins away. I think.” I said, starting to flinch at the pain.

“You’re just making your neck red.”

Flipping down the visor mirror again, I confirmed she was right and I looked more hideous than ever.

“I guess I’m going to have to convert.” I said sadly.  Flipping the visor up again.

“Convert?  Girl, what are you talking about?”

“I’m going to become a Muslim so I can wear a burqa.” I explained.

“First of all, you are the most devout Christian I know.  Granted, that’s not saying much since most of my friends are Jews or Atheists, but I don’t see you giving up your faith.”

“You’re right.  I love Jesus.  Do you think He would mind if I had plastic surgery?” I asked seriously.

She stared at me for a very long time, which was terrifying because she was doing 70 mph on the interstate.

“What?” I asked when she continued taking our lives in her blind hands.

“Girl.” She said, which really meant “You are too stupid for more words.”

We exited the freeway and I breathed a sigh of relief, beginning to believe we would actually get to our destination without an accident.

“I wish I was black.” I said wistfully.

She gave me that look, which said “girrrr-l” but with a question mark on it, which means “what they hell are you talking about?”

“Black people don’t age.  Look at Will Smith.  He looks the same now as when he was the Fresh Prince.  And Samuel L. Jackson.  And Denzel Washington.” I continued.

“Those are all black men.” She pointed out.

“Well… Beyonce’ then.  She looks like she’s only about thirty-five.”

“She’s thirty-six.” She advised.

“Oh, I said.

“Beyonce’ at eighty would be an improvement for you though.” She said only half joking.

“That’s what I’m saying.” I agreed.

“You know what your problem is?” she said, parking the car. It was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t try to guess at which problem she was referring to.  “You don’t know what you got, ‘til it’s gone.”

“That’s not-“ I began to argue, because if there’s one thing I am good at, it’s appreciating the who’s and what’s in my life.

“Let me finish.” She said holding up the quiet finger. “Have you ever looked back at photos and thought “Hey, I didn’t look half bad then.” but at the time you thought you looked terrible?”

A light switch flipped in my brain and I understood what she was saying.  “You think you look bad now, just wait a few years.”

With those words of wisdom, I slipped my big sunglasses on, tossed my hair over my shoulder and buttoned my vest snug across my chest.  Then, stepping from the car, I strutted across the street like John Travolta taking the dance floor in Saturday Night Fever.

To the kids at the elementary school, I may have looked like an old lady with big glasses who was hearing voices, but to me, I was a volunteer crossing guard with a few good years still ahead of her.

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