A lesson in relativity involving relatives

According to my calendar, it has been only one month since Christmas Eve.

This seems impossible to me, and perhaps it may seem so to you, now that I've called it to your attention.

So much has happened since.

To set the scene, Middle Son and his wife Margaret were very responsible and grown-up and decided that, since their youngest (he's just more than nine months old now) had been exposed to COVID-19 at Daycare at the beginning of that week, they should stay at home on Christmas Eve, lest any of them or their three children turn out to be contagious.

I pouted. But the often-dormant grown-up part of me eventually surfaced, understood, and (reluctantly) accepted their decision.

So only four of our five children could be with us for Christmas Eve.

It all worked out, as these things do. But in the rush of events leading to our Christmas Eve gathering, Younger Daughter and Olaf asked Olaf's parents to watch their four kids on December 23. Olaf's parents are not vaccinated against COVID-19, and deliberately, and defiantly, so. But they were in apparently good health on that occasion.

They were less healthy on Christmas Day, when Younger Daughter and Olaf brought the kids by for more presents, but they didn't mention it.

If you are tempted to contrast the behavior of Olaf's parents unfavorably with that of Middle Son and Margaret on this divisive issue of guarding against infecting others, I will not try to stop you. Anyway, Olaf's parents got progressively sicker after Christmas, to the point where, after first floating the notion that they must have picked something up from the grandkids, they actually sought testing. (They have both recovered, as far as I know, and neither required hospitalization -- thank you milder omicron variant -- but they were pretty sick for a solid week or so.)

Middle Son and Margaret's exposure turned out not to result in any Covid at their house, and they were thinking of rejoining the world in time for New Year's Eve, but the positive diagnoses of Olaf's parents scotched that idea pretty quick. Depending on your attitude, I suppose, Middle Son was either being Eeyore or merely philosophical when he predicted that, once his kids went back to school and Daycare they'd catch the Covid for real. Meanwhile, Olaf and Younger Daughter and all their kids came down with the disease. (Oddly enough, the two grandkids under five, who can't be vaccinated, had it worst. The rest, who are as vaccinated and/or boostered as their ages will permit, exhibited mild symptoms only.)

Anyway, Middle Son's pessimistic prediction proved accurate. We eventually delivered all the Christmas presents for his family still at our house along with chicken soup and crackers and Cuban sandwiches (so they wouldn't have to cook) and other things that were meant to provide aid and comfort whilst they recuperated. (Middle Son had not yet been boostered; he seemed to have the most serious case, even more substantial than his kids, none of whom are old enough to be vaccinated.) Long Suffering Spouse and I wore masks when we dropped these off on their front porch and ran like flushed pheasants.

Oldest Son and Abby went to Notre Dame's bowl game debacle in Arizona. We babysat Rodent, their now elderly dog. On the flight back from Arizona to Chicago, they were seated in front of a man who kept hacking and wheezing. Though they're both fully vaxxed and boostered, when Oldest Son came down with a sore throat, a few days later, Abby insisted he take a Covid test. He turned up positive, too.

Why did you bother getting tested when you had such negligible symptoms? I asked him via text when he reported the diagnosis. Well, he replied, Abby is paranoid about these things. She insisted. (Fully vaxxed and boostered, they both recovered quickly.)

So much has gone on -- and that's just the family Covid report card. Surely, two months must have elapsed since Christmas, or even three....

But, no, the calendar insists it has been only a month as of today.

Physicists will tell you that time slooooows down, relative to a stationary observer, as a traveler approaches the speed of light. Our hypothetical space traveler would potentially age far less on a near lightspeed trip to Proxima Centauri than would her friends and family on Earth. Eons might pass outside in the seconds it might take someone trapped in the event horizon of a black hole to be pulled into his constituent atoms. Time, they teach us, is relative.

As if we didn't already know that instinctively! Duck into a tavern sometime on your way home from work for a quick one. Hours may pass for your anxious and then angry spouse waiting at home, while only a few happy minutes seem to pass by inside the gin mill. The minutes stretch out to infinity and beyond when you're waiting for someone to return a phone call. Meanwhile, time compresses to a whoosh when you have to leave by a certain time and you just have one more thing you want to finish. For a grownup, the weeks before Christmas rush by in a mad blur. For a little kid, the weeks before Christmas are an agonizingly slow torture. Every minute is an hour, every hour is a day.

And in the crush of events following another Pandemic holiday, as happened to me this morning, one can be jolted by the realization that the months that have zoomed by since Christmas have really only taken 30 days....

Did you put your shoes out last night for St. Nicholas?

(Photo credit: nestfullofeggs.blogspot.com)

Today, December 6, is the Feast of St. Nicholas. When we were kids we'd put our shoes somewhere where St. Nicholas could fill them with candy or other sweets. Depending on how the religious calendars coincided, St. Nicholas would sometimes bring marked down, post-Hanukkah gelt. (If Hanukkah came late in a given year, the Hanukkah gelt would wind up in our Christmas stockings instead.)

Very ecumenical and economical.

Naturally I tried (at least once) to leave my boots out for St. Nicholas, as opposed to mere shoes. My parents vetoed the plan.

The thought -- now -- of eating something that had been left to linger in my shoes overnight strikes me as awful. What were we thinking?

But, of course, what we were thinking -- then -- was that this was an opportunity to get candy and we really didn't care if it had to marinate in our stinky gym shoes for some hours before we could get at it. Chocolate is chocolate.

Nor were we overly concerned with whether St. Nicholas was or was not the same guy as Santa Claus. I suppose if we thought about it, we might have wondered why the same old guy would come by on both the 6th and the 24th. With a different modus operandi on each occasion. But no self-respecting kid wonders long about where candy is coming from, as long as it's coming in sufficiently copious quantities.

Facebook: Living your best lie

That's not a typo in the headline... it's kind of a click-bait play on words... it is supposed to put you in mind of the Oprah "best life" thing. Whatever. You're here. Stay with me and I'll explain....

That's a happy-looking kid, right?

It's the kind of thing you typically see on Facebook or Instagram these days: Happy people doing happy things. Celebrating. Enjoying each others' company.

Oh, sure, there's also the political dreck. Sloganeering. Shouting in the echo chamber. Racking up 'likes' from all those in your 'silo'. All those people telling you how right you are, though you've never met them. It makes it all the harder for you to understand why Cousin Bessie blocked you. Or your mother.

Today, I'm not talking about that problem.

Instead, I'm talking about all these happy people on Facebook and Instagram doing marvelous things. So enthused. So satisfied. They're all doing so much better than you are.

At least, it looks that way. And that sometimes brings you down.

But are all these people really as happy as they appear?

We're in the Holiday season now. You may have already gotten some Christmas cards. Some of these may have Christmas letters.

Everyone is always doing so marvelously in Christmas letters. OK, yes, Dad died -- but the letter says that Mom has reentered the world with new energy and enthusiasm. She can't live alone anymore -- but the letter says that Mom is thrilled to be at Restful Acres with all sorts of fun and cheerful neighbors. And such wonderful activities! (They go on a bus to a casino once a month and everyone loses a cup full of coins in the cheapest slot machines. But the letter doesn't include that bit.)

And Junior? Well, he lost his job. And didn't get off the couch for a month. Didn't bathe for the first two weeks. But, with the bill collectors circling ever closer, he took a job flipping burgers for a fast-food chain. As a college graduate, he may eventually get a shot at management. Some day. (Though there is a PhD with more seniority working the french fry machine.) So the Christmas letter says Junior has changed careers and is now exploring management opportunities in the convenience dining sector.

Sis is miserable, having broken up this past Spring with the young man everyone thought was The One. Sis was distraught for the longest time. But she did go visit her cousin in Wisconsin over the summer. (They ate ice cream and cookie dough nonstop for a week.) So the Christmas letter says Sis is enjoying her freedom, traveling to see family and friends.

Those Christmas letters no longer fool you. You have learned to read through them. To read between the lines. They don't make you depressed like they used to; instead, you are filled with wonder at the creativity your Christmas correspondents possess and their skill at turning sows' ears into silk purses.

Well, Dear Reader, think of Facebook or Instagram as year-round Christmas letters. 24/7/365. You must see through these too.

Some of your Facebook "friends" really are happier than you. Or better off. But toilets still backup unexpectedly. Even at their houses. You just won't hear about it on Facebook. On Facebook you'll see a picture of your friends' kids dressed up for their darling Christmas photos. But no one will tell you that two of them puked on the morning of the shoot -- and the other one puked immediately after the picture was taken.

And some of your "friends"? If you knew what really went on in their homes in between those precious photos, your heart would break. From compassion, not jealousy.

You'd never know it from looking online... but life just sucks for everyone sometimes. Keep that in mind and you'll be happier. Not because you would revel in someone else's sorrow. That would be sick. No, you are happier because you realize you are not alone in having problems.

Meanwhile, you just took an amazing picture of your dog tangled up in the Christmas tree skirt. She looks so cute. Go ahead and post it on Facebook. I'll "like" it.

Yeah, in a sense, it's all a lie: The dog who looks so cute in this picture is the same mangy mongrel who pooped in the middle of the kitchen floor to punish you for being too long away on Thanksgiving. That beaming kid who is so proudly displaying the certificate he got for his art project is the same little monster who said he hates you because you would not let him stay out past 10:00 p.m. on Saturday. But you would be embarrassed and ashamed to burden the world with your troubles and I totally understand that. And I have troubles of my own, anyway. I don't need to hear about yours.

You put your best gloss on the posts you share with the world on social media. Just as your aunt sugarcoats the bejeezus out of actual events in her Christmas letter.

This isn't just a social media thing. Or a Christmas letter thing. You probably don't dress formally to go out to the store -- we live in a very informal culture these days -- but, unless you're hoping to be captured for posterity in one of those 'sights seen at Wal-Mart' websites, you at least comb your hair and wear presentable clothes. Since you don't "always" look like that, that may be called a "lie" also.

But your appearance is really an expression of your self-respect. You share your better self with the world.

And that's all your "friends" are doing on Facebook, too. Call it a lie if you must -- but it's just people sharing what they want you to know about their lives. Don't feel bad about how well everyone else is doing. When folks look at your feed, it looks like you're doing great, too.

Wow. Have you got them snowed! (*Clicking 'like' now on adorable kitten picture...*)

Another thing we never imagined we'd have to think about: "Reconnecting" with family after a Pandemic

My friend Steven and I were chatting on the phone the other day. Among other things, we discussed the forthcoming Holidays.

"My sister has decided to pass the baton," Steve told me, talking about who would be hosting his family's Thanksgiving dinner. One of their nieces had elected to step in. She's young, Steve said, but she and her husband have a big enough house for the extended family.

But there was a problem, he said: The niece and her husband are not vaccinated against COVID-19.

A few days ago, Steve said, he mentioned the possible dinner plans to his 30-something son. His son was quiet for some time, evidently weighing his words carefully. "Dad," he said, "I don't know if I can reconnect with persons who are not vaccinated...."

I snorted at that one. Reconnect? I hooted, far more mockingly than I should have.

FULL DISCLOSURE: Like my friend Steven, I am fully vaccinated. Or as fully vaccinated as I can be at this moment: I have not yet had my booster shot, though I will get one as soon as I can. I wear my face mask in public places, not because some idiot politician tells me to, but because, sifting through all the dreck on TV and online, I am persuaded it provides some protection against infection. At worst, it does no harm. In my opinion.

Nevertheless, I firmly believe that, just as blood is thicker than water, blood is absolutely thicker than some stupid virus. You don't jettison a family member because he or she has made what you think is a dumb, or even irresponsible, decision about vaccination.

Look at it this way: Suppose you are vaccinated and your cousin Farquar and his wife Fannie are not. They invite you over for holiday cheer. You have minimized your risk of getting the virus and protected yourself, as much as possible, against dire consequences should you catch the virus anyway. Farquar and Fannie don't care about getting the disease, and while you may potentially transmit it to them (the vaccinated can still spread the disease, apparently) they have assumed the risk of that unlikely outcome.

But what, you ask, about old Aunt Flossie, who lives with Farquar and Fannie, and who likewise has refused to take the shot? Because the consequences of Covid can be so much more severe for those who are older, some may see this as a tougher question.

I don't.

Flossie has made her decision and, if she still has command of her faculties (and especially if she still makes that delicious pumpkin pie), I say the calculus is the same. She has assumed the risk of contracting the disease from you, and you have minimized the risk to her by being vaccinated. Would you feel bad if she succumbed to the Covid a few weeks after your visit? Of course. But you can't know, and would never know, assuming you did not come down with a diagnosed breakthrough infection shortly after the gathering, whether she got it from you or while shopping at the local Wal-Mart. (And you should realize that the odds would favor her getting the bug at Wal-Mart.)

Maybe you think it a tougher choice if you are hosting. Because you are bringing Farquar and Fannie and old Aunt Flossie into your home with all your other, vaccinated relations, some of whom may be young children who can't be vaccinated.

As this is written, the Pfizer shot has been approved for children aged 5-11. Two of my eligible grandchildren have already received their first dose. The other two eligible grandchildren have their first shot scheduled. But that means that I have six grandkids who can't be vaccinated. So, yes, I have thought about this.

Here's the way I figure it: According to all I have read and seen, the very young are the least likely to get the disease or suffer serious consequences if they do. There's a reason why vaccines were prioritized first to the elderly and only now to children. The risk that Flossie, Farquar, and Fannie would pick up some non-Covid bug that the kids acquired in school or daycare seems much greater, to me, anyway, than the risk that the kids might pick up the Covid from Flossie, Farquar, or Fannie. Assuming of course that Flossie, Farquar, and Flossie aren't wheezing and sneezing when they come to your house.

Which brings up another point.

Remember those far-off, carefree days before the Pandemic when the Holidays rolled around and everyone in the house got sick? I do. How many times did we muscle through this -- I'm using the inclusive "we" here, meaning me and you both -- and persuade ourselves that the kids weren't too sick or that we could hold down the aspirin and cough syrup long enough to get through the family gathering?

We were such idiots.

Thanksgiving and Christmas will come next year, too. Probably. Unless the Chinese invade Taiwan and trigger nuclear Armageddon. Or Yellowstone erupts, and wipes out much of America. But the odds are pretty good that the Holidays will return next year, right on schedule.

Therefore, if you are feeling punk, or puny, or whatever euphenism you favor, don't go visit Aunt Flossie or Farquar or Fannie. Cancel the dinner at your home. Reschedule it. There are, as the song says, 12 days of Christmas. No federal laws will be violated if your Christmas feast is not celebrated exactly on the 25th Day of December.

That should always have been the rule. I'd have enjoyed a great many more New Year's Days if it had been.

But, if you're feeling healthy, and they're feeling healthy, see the family over the Holidays. Vaccinated or not. Because, in the long run, family is about the most important thing we have or ever will have in this world.

Just maybe don't talk about politics. Or vaccinations. And, under no circumstances, if you are in the Central or Eastern time zones, do not delay Thanksgiving dinner beyond halftime of the Dallas game.

Fr. Timothy X. Warnn misunderstands Christmas

Timothy X. Warnn is the fictional name I've bestowed on the new pastor of our parish. Well, 'new' as in he's been there two years already, and it seems like forever. We can talk about why I'm still going there some other time. For now, though, let's talk about the poor man's confusion over Christmas.

Fr. Warnn (don't ever call him Fr. Tim!) is one of the more negative people ever to survive to adulthood. And I say this as a registered Curmudgeon, and therefore not exactly a sunny optimist myself. My good wife, who tries to find something to like in everyone, says he's not really evil, or out to deliberately destroy our parish; it's just that there is no way he should ever have been appointed to lead any sort of congregation. He also seems kind to his dog, she adds.

A week ago Sunday, on the Feast of St. Nicholas, Fr. Warnn was preaching that Catholics need to reject modern culture; if we're not counter-cultural, we're doing something wrong. (In Fr. Warnn's world, we're always doing something wrong.)

Did you know, he asked rhetorically, that in Japan they have a Christmas parade? He sneered, "Japan is not even a Christian nation!" -- I guess he thinks the United States is a Christian nation? -- but the Japanese Christmas parade only had Santa Claus and reindeer and elves and toys (no religious content at all, in other words), and this, apparently, is all wrong.

Except, of course, that it's Fr. Warnn who is all wrong.

We -- all of us, Catholics, non-Catholics, non-Christians, even non-believers -- can all participate in this kind of Currier & Ives, just-hear-those-sleighbells-jingling Christmas. A Jew, Irving Berlin, wrote "White Christmas." Santa Claus and Frosty the Snowman are non-denominational. Christmas trees and Christmas lights are not religious icons. The message of "Peace on Earth" is a universal one -- and one we all need to heed -- whether we are Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu or atheist.

There's nothing wrong with celebrating that sort of Christmas.

That's what Fr. Warnn should have said. And then he should have added that we -- Christians generally and Catholics in particular -- have a Christmas that is all of that and more.

We Christians know where the message of "Peace on Earth" comes from. We know that this message is part of the glad tidings proclaimed by the angels to the shepherds guarding their flocks in the fields by night, the angels telling the shepherds -- and all of us, down through the centuries -- that unto us, in the City of David, a Child had been born, a Child destined to save the world. Fr. Warnn should have said that the Star of Bethlehem is still shining overhead for all of us, waiting to direct us to the Manger, if we are willing to open our eyes, and our hearts, and follow.

And he should have encouraged us to share this kind of Christmas, too -- we should want to share this Christmas, too -- but we should also realize that not everyone is ready, or willing, to accept this full meaning of the holiday. That's OK. We will share our Christmas joy with our neighbors on any terms that our neighbors can handle -- we don't have to reject Santa Claus to welcome the Christ Child. We know there's more to Christmas than Rudolph's red nose or Buddy the Elf, or even the change of heart experienced by Ebeneezer Scrooge or the Grinch, but believers can enjoy the secular as well as the sacred. The world has something wonderful in the secular Christmas, Fr. Warnn could have concluded, but we Christians have all that and so much more besides.

Of course, Fr. Warnn isn't the only one who misunderstands Christmas. He has equally dense counterparts in the secular world. There are those who bristle at Santa Claus and reindeer and elves as if they were Biblical patriarchs. Who get mad if you let "Merry Christmas" slip instead of "Happy Holidays." These poor creatures think that, because "Christ" is contained within the word "Christmas," the entire holiday is an attack on the First Amendment. They imagine a slippery slope running straight down from "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" to "Adeste Fidelis." Idiots. Wednesday is derived from Woden's Day (after the Norse god Odin), Thursday is Thor's Day, and Friday is Frigg's Day (for Odin's wife) -- but no one claims that these homages to the gods of Asgard undermine our Constitution.

And don't even get me started on the allegedly religious dopes who got mad this year at Starbuck's for not putting Christmas trees or other secular symbols of the holiday on their plain red seasonal cups. As if this 'omission' constituted an attack on the deeper, religious meaning of Christmas. Who storm out of stores where clerks say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." Golly, weren't we once concerned about the effects of "commercialism" on our understanding of the holiday? Good heavens.

There are aspects of modern culture that Catholics need to reject, but we do not need to reject what is good and wholesome in our common culture in order to enjoy what is special in our religious heritage.

Merry Christmas to all.

The Three Kings have come and gone and we still haven't sent out any Christmas cards

The 12 Days of Christmas are over. It was Greek Christmas this past Tuesday. By any standard you can articulate, the Christmas season has come and gone.

Not only did we not take a family Christmas picture this year, we didn't even send out one card. I didn't open anyone else's Christmas card myself either; a couple were opened by others and called to my attention, but I don't like to look at other people's Christmas cards until I've sent my own. So this year I just didn't look.

*Sigh* We'll just have to do better next year.

Part of it, I suppose, is that with the baby in the house, we spend a more of our evenings defending our territory than in any productive pursuit.

That grandbaby is a one-toddler engine of destruction. Of course, Long Suffering Spouse and I didn't move to our present house until Youngest Son was already three. We never child-proofed the "new" house (Youngest Son will turn 21 next month) because we didn't have to. And in those days we didn't have cords for charging phones and tablets either. We had a desktop computer, but that was just one thing to defend.

One of our five kids took pinking shears to a bedspread at some point, and another liked to raid the bathroom cabinet and make mountains out of bath powder. In the hallway. But these things took place at the old house.

The Baby to Be Named Later has discovered bathrooms herself and, in particular, toilet paper. Unrolling toilet paper is one of her favorite things in the whole world. And she's figured out that no one can hear her when she does it. Except when she squeals with unrestrained delight at her achievement, of course.

By then it's too late.

And the baby knows that smartphones and tablets show Elmo and Big Bird videos. All she has to do is ask (she thinks) and, whenever she sees a smartphone or tablet, she does ask. Loudly. Insistently.

This has caused some modifications in our usual behavior.

In other houses it might seem strange to see a 20-year old wrapped in a blanket and surreptitiously glancing down and fingering something within. (It might seem a little creepy, too, come to think of it.) But at our house the other night, for example, Youngest Son was just trying to text constantly like any other self-respecting college student -- without his niece realizing that he was on a phone.

I have DVDs on one shelf in the den and CDs on another. The baby thinks these are great for rearranging. She has liberated us from the stifling concept of storing things in mere alphabetical order.

Well, sure, you say, put things up. Put them out of the baby's reach.

But this is a big baby and she's got a big reach. And you can't put everything up. We have blocked some shelves. We've blocked some cabinets and locked others -- but some are left unlocked because the baby has to play with something, right?

I mean, if we closed off all the kitchen cabinets -- denying her access to the pots and pans and plastic storage containers -- she might be stuck playing with her million and one toys. Why, that would be barbarous!

So, unless your foot is no longer than about five inches, walking anywhere in the house can be interesting. I've had five kids; I've been pretty good at negotiating the minefield. Of course I was more agile when I was younger.

And then there's eating.

We've never been a sit-at-the-dining-room table sort of family, or even a sit-at-the-kitchen-table sort of family (at least, we haven't since our own kids were little). Even way back then, I generally did not eat with the family because I got home so late from work. (The kids grew up never knowing that their father was a picky eater. Long Suffering Spouse was -- and is -- a genius. And Oldest Son's finicky palate? That's conclusive proof of nature over nurture. My wife should win the Nobel Prize for that one alone.)

Anyway, as school and jobs and outside interests took over, the kids ate at odd hours, too.

So, in these later days, we are accustomed to eating whenever, and generally in front of the TV in the den.

This has provided a goldmine of opportunity for the Baby to Be Named Later. She's noticed, when we babysit her aunt and uncle's dogs, that the animals beg for table scraps. She's now the most insistent beggar there is. I can be eating tuna fish casserole and minding my own business when all of a sudden someone is demanding my peas, please. I always ask Younger Daughter whether I should comply with these demands, and to what extent, and I do pretty much as she says. She's the mom, after all. But, when she says no, you'd think I had a tablet in my lap and was refusing to watch The Elmo Song for the nine millionth time.

Once I made the mistake of trying to eat dinner while reading on a tablet.

Never, ever again.

I suppose this sounds like a litany of complaints. In print, on your screen, it may seem like a grouchy old guy carping and not affectionate at all.

But that's not my intent.

Last night Younger Daughter and Olaf had to make an emergency grocery run. Younger Daughter was apologetic about it -- indeed, she could have gone and returned in the time she spent apologizing. But there was nothing to apologize for.

Younger Daughter and Olaf had attended to the Level 1 Hazmat cleanup of the baby, and changed her clothes (she's still teething, you know) and, although she was worried that Vesuvius might erupt again, it really wasn't going to make any difference... even if the there was another toxic spill I was pretty sure we could contain the damage until the baby's parents returned. Just as long as they finally got going.

Eventually, Younger Daughter corralled the kid and brought her into the den. I was in my recliner. I'd just finished eating (I can wolf it down when I have to). Younger Daughter plopped the kid on my lap and the baby simply snuggled in for the whole 45 minutes or so that her parents were gone. She didn't try to escape more than a couple of times, and then only half-heartedly. Long Suffering Spouse, nodding off in her chair, tossed me one of the baby's blankets and the child was content. As Long Suffering Spouse faded out, the baby settled in.

"She's very comfortable with us," Long Suffering Spouse observed.

"She is," I agreed as I started Play With Me Sesame on the TV's On-Demand menu. (Sure it's cheating, but, hey, we're grandparents. We need that little extra edge.)

"Maybe there's something to be said for multi-generational households," my wife said sleepily.

"I would never have guessed it a few years ago," I said.

Cookie Monster sang C is for Cookie, That's Good Enough for Me.

The baby squealed with happiness.

But this post was about how we didn't send out Christmas cards this year. Well, things have been kind of busy. With a 15-month old toddler in the house, even if I'm only the grandpa, how could it be otherwise?

Curmudgeon a Grinch, Scrooge, or just a grouch? I report -- you decide

"It's that time of year," the song goes, "when the world falls in love. Every song you hear seems to say, 'Merry Christmas,' may your New Year's dreams come true."

But I'm not waltzing through the Christmas season.

Oh, I like the lights and the carols well enough.

But my Long Suffering Spouse and I are going to have to go shopping tomorrow.

I am not looking forward to spending money we don't have, on people we don't particularly like, to buy things they won't need and don't want.

"What can we do about it?" my wife tries to reason with me. "They're family."

I have suggested that we buy everyone -- including our own kids, for that matter -- an orange and a pair of socks. That's traditional, isn't it? And we won't significantly increase our credit card debt in the process.

I have, in fact, suggested this once too often, at least, for my own good. Recently, as my wife brought up the subject of Christmas shopping, I had just opened my mouth when she told me to knock it off.

Do not get me wrong.

My wife is the exact opposite of a spendthrift.

We live frugally, as we must, and Long Suffering Spouse gamely muddles along with practical restrictions I don't think either of our daughters would possibly accept.

It's just that, at Christmas, my wife feels the need to buy stuff for her sister Josephine and her sister's kids and even her sister's still fairly-new husband, Ferdinand. "We didn't buy any birthday presents," she reminds me, "or graduation gifts" (two of Josephine's kids graduated this year, one from college, the other from grammar school). "And they'll buy us stuff," she says, playing her best card last.

"We could agree not to buy each other anything, you know," I pointed out -- but Long Suffering Spouse would actually have to speak with her sister to negotiate such an arrangement. She doesn't want to do that. "Besides," she said, "Abuela wouldn't like it."

Game, set, and match to Long Suffering Spouse.

Still I find myself agreeing with Sir Michael Caine, who portrayed Ebeneezer Scrooge in The Muppet Christmas Carol (one of my wife's favorite holiday movies). Caine snarls at Bob Cratchit (Kermit), "Christmas is a very busy time for us, Mr. Cratchit. People preparing feasts, giving parties, spending the mortgage money on frivolities. One might say that December is the foreclosure season. Harvest time for the money-lenders."

Just because ol' Ebeneezer is a bad guy doesn't mean he's wrong, does it?

And what's wrong with an orange and a pair of socks anyway? Our TV died last month. We had to replace it. The DVD/VCR died two nights ago. That's something we'll presumably come home with tomorrow. We'll have buckets out in the den to catch the leaks from the roof tonight (we're having a bit of a thaw at the moment here in Chicago -- good news, mostly, except for the leaky roof). I'd love to replace the computer in the den -- it's eight years old now and the CD drive stopped working six months ago (there's still one viable URL port). Our kitchen is falling apart -- in fact, we've deferred so much maintenance for so long (it was suggested that we replace the furnace when we moved in -- 17 years ago -- and we never have), that it's hard to say where we should start to fix things. If we could start.

My law practice stinks -- it takes a lot of time and returns little. I will make more than my Catholic school teacher wife this year -- I think -- but not much more. Things are actually better now than they've been for awhile. I just moved a huge balance from one credit card to another, taking advantage of an interest free offer -- saving myself $250 a month just in interest payments on that one account.

I have reason to hope things will continue to get better.

But why do I have to have this annual reminder of just how far I've fallen -- and how far I must climb to get back up?

I don't think that makes me the Grinch. I don't think it even makes me Scrooge -- the three demons that torture my dreams aren't the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future but rather MasterCard, Visa and American Express.

But, you know, it's hard not to say "Bah Humbug."

I will adjust my attitude, I hope, before heading out on the morrow with Long Suffering Spouse.

But, seriously, what is wrong with an orange and a pair of socks?

The Big Red "A" is for Atheist

Perhaps this story has made the national news. At the east end of the Daley Center Plaza, wedged in between the skyscraping Hanukkah Menorah and the giant Nativity Scene is a festive Big Red "A," with a sign in front wishing passersby a Happy Winter Solstice.

A group of atheists thought they would be clever and obtain the permits necessary to put up this display and thereby thumb their snooty noses at all of us superstitious inferiors who still profess belief in a power greater than man.

Far be it from me to complain that the atheists don't have a right to believe in Nothing. But it seems to me that, with their Big Red "A," the atheists are doubly represented at the Daley Center.

I mean, at the Daley Center these days, the Jews have only the Menorah. Christians have only the Stable. (The giant Christmas tree on the south end of the plaza is not a religious symbol.) But all the empty space in between -- all the Nothing -- is that not the sign and symbol of the true atheist? Now the atheists also also have a Big Red "A." Seems to me that's two representations for the anti-religionists, but only one each for each religious group.

I said as much to Long Suffering Spouse when the story aired on the news here a week or so ago. Some smug professional atheist was interviewed, overjoyed that this rather pathetic ploy for attention was being taken seriously, at least by the TV reporter. You might not think that being an atheist would be incompatible with missionary zeal. But this guy sure acted like a True Believer, even if he believes only in Nothing.

"Is that what the 'A' stands for?" she asked. "Atheist?"

I assured her that this was the case.

"Hmmm," she said. "I would have guessed it stood for something else."

Curmudgeon unloads on Christmas

If there's anything that can bring out my inner Curmudgeon, it's Christmas.

Well, that's not entirely true.

I actually love many things about Christmas -- the lights (other people's displays brighten up the walk home on those dark nights), the songs (you can listen to every musical genre all at once, from opera to pop, from jazz to rap -- although when the iPod shuffles 32 consecutive versions of "Little Drummer Boy" or "White Christmas" that does wear after a time), and the movies (any Santa-scoffer must reconsider after viewing the original Miracle on 34th Street, even if ol' Kris did get the name of John Quincy Adams' Vice President mixed up) -- but you'll notice I've not mentioned trees.

I've complained about Christmas trees here in the past -- but I suppose that what I'm really complaining about is the disruption that Christmas brings to my routine.

The weekend lost to putting up the tree, and the tree itself, are merely symbolic of that disruption. There are other boxes that must be rescued from exile in the garage -- cookie tins and molds and Advent calendars and decorations that must be hung on walls in all the rooms of the house.

And I certainly can't complain about the disruption involving my wife's cookies. First, she does all the work -- even if I may be dragooned into putting the 50lb. bag of flour into or the van at Costco or into the basement at home. Second, I look forward to the cookies -- I even distribute a few tins myself in the hopes of getting business with them. (These cookies can be a powerful inducement.)

But with everything Christmas-y that must be done in December, we still must do all the tasks that we must do in April or July or October. The laundry can't wait until after New Year's. The bills must be paid. Work must be done.

I've learned that men in particular are creatures of routine. I had a law partner once who said that a man chooses his haircut, his shoes, his shirt preference, all by the time he's 18 -- 25 at the latest. And then nothing changes.

That's certainly been my pattern.

When I was a teen and I wanted to ride home on the train with my father after working or goofing off downtown for the day, I didn't need to call his cell phone (which hadn't yet been invented anyway). I just went to a particular car on the 4:42 express train. I could sit down next to him without looking: He not only took the same train every night and sat in the same car; he sat in the same seat.

I can't quite do that on the el -- there are too many other people who will take any seat that's available. But, I have a particular car that I prefer in an eight car train, and a particular seat in that car, and I sit there whenever I can.

Routine is good.

Christmas upsets routine.

Here is a man who needs routine.

Perhaps I've advanced this theory here before: The male's need for routine goes back to the earliest stages of human development. The men would go off to hunt the wooly mammoth or something and they had to be aware of the right time to start the hunt -- the horns of the first half moon after the melting of the snows suggested the migration of the aurochs or something. And maybe our cave-dwelling ancestors did not understand the concept of 'upwind' or 'downwind' but they knew that if they came after the bear this way they could surprise it, but not if they came after it from that way. You might say that the need to develop -- and follow -- routines was more or less bred into the male of the species.

Women, on the other hand, always had to be more flexible. Yes, there'd be the season to pick berries and the season to gather nuts, and that would suggest a routine -- but the cave-women had charge of the cave-kids, too. Kids have never been entirely predictable. And there'd be surprises, as well -- one minute you're chewing deer hide to soften it enough so you can pierce it with your stone awl, and the next minute wolves or saber-tooth tigers are chasing the kids, or a large bear comes back to reclaim the cave that everyone thought he'd abandoned.

Christmas, for the allegedly 'gentler' sex, is just another disruption in the schedule with which they cope. Like their great-great-great (and so on) grandmothers chasing off the bear while the men were out goofing around looking for mastodons, women just cope with Christmas better.

But this year has put even Long Suffering Spouse to the test.

There's all our stuff, of course, but we know where to stash this picture or that one until their Christmas replacements come off the walls. But we have Younger Daughter and Olaf and the Baby-to-be-named-later in residence with us this year. Their stuff from the wedding is still in the basement -- underneath their stuff from the baby shower and the Baptism. And now they have Christmas stuff, too.

Then Older Daughter and her husband Hank and their dog Cork descended upon us -- with all their usual baggage (Cork's travel cage, Hank's suitcase -- which is always left on the living room floor, Older Daughter's hair dryer and her hair curler -- which seems, though I know it can not be so, to simultaneously take up residence in each bathroom in the house) and all of their Christmas stuff besides.

Maybe that's the real reason why we have to put up a tall tree -- so at least the tip of it can be visible above all this stuff.

I had to walk sideways, and serpentine, just to get to the coffeemaker last Friday.

By Christmas, all of this disruption had begun to wear on Long Suffering Spouse as well. It's one thing to have your nut-gathering interrupted by a saber-tooth tiger attack, but at our house it's the modern equivalents of wolves and saber-tooth tigers and bears all at the same time.

My friend Steve called me at the office late yesterday afternoon. "I'm surprised you're at work with everything that must be going on at your house," he said. And when I did not answer immediately he thought a little. "Of course, maybe that's why you're at work, eh?"

Bingo!

Curmudgeon's holiday blogging plans gang agley

Natalie Dee December 21 webcomic.

Christmas hit our household like a runaway train. If you want to make that allusion more Christmas-y, you can say that Christmas hit our household like the Polar Express careening out of control on the ice in the Tom Hanks movie.

I had a plan. I had hopes of putting up this Natalie Dee webcomic on Saturday morning (when I first saw it, I thought it would make a pretty spiffy transition from my own Apocalypse Maybe Week to the Christmas holiday) and maybe a post on Sunday or Monday about Christmas preparations in the Curmudgeon household and only then putting up my annual "Closed for the Season" Santa Claus cartoon.

It was such a nice plan, too. You would have enjoyed it.

But Long Suffering Spouse finished making all her famous Christmas cookies on Wednesday last and Thursday was Distribution Day and I had all sorts of stuff popping at work.

I've tried to explain this before: My business depends on referrals from other lawyers. So that means I get work when other lawyers are too busy to keep stuff I could do better for them. Sometimes that's because they have too much work of their own. Sometimes it's because it's a holiday and they're busy with other things. Very few people have had too much work of their own of late (something about the economy; you've probably heard about this), which explains why I've been starving here -- but with the arrival of the holidays things can still pick up a little. And they have.

So Long Suffering Spouse wanted me home early on Friday, but I really needed to be here all day. And Saturday morning we had to do our Christmas shopping.

Long Suffering Spouse had done some already, of course, but there were still several nieces and nephews entirely unaccounted for and there was more stuff she needed for some of our kids. My job was to take out cash, the idea being that if we spent cash we'd be more discriminating in our purchases. That was my idea, anyway.

Now I go to a mall about once a year, whether I need to or not. This trip Saturday was my appearance for 2012. But we left fairly early and there was even parking available. My wife directed to me to a spot as distant from the mall entrance as possible. "You'll thank me for this before we're gone today," she prophesied as I shivered across the parking lot. I don't go to the mall often, but I go often enough that I know not to wear a regular winter coat, even if it's freezing outside. It won't be freezing inside, and I don't want to suffer from heat prostration.

We hit the Clinique counter at Macy's as soon as we got in the door. One of our nieces is newly arrived at an age where she's very interested in the acne reducing properties of some of the products offered by this manufacturer. Think of it as platinum zit cream. I actually don't know if it's cream or gel or liquid, but I know it costs like platinum. And there was some question as to whether our girls needed stuff and then my wife thought she definitely needed stuff and I had to be the one to tell her that I thought -- at least I'd heard a rumor -- that Santa Claus might have taken care of some of her imminent makeup needs. "I told them not to buy me anything!" Long Suffering Spouse fumed.

"Who?" I asked, as innocently as possible.

"Your daughters," she said. "They can't afford it."

"I didn't say it was them, or either of them. I just said that I'd heard --"

"I heard you the first time. Now call Older Daughter and see if she has [Product Name]."

If I were a successful writer I'd remember all these product names. All of your bestselling authors drop product names in practically every paragraph. It helps to reenforce the verisimilitude of the story, and provides a sense of time and place -- but only if you have the first inkling about the product in the first place.

Which I don't. I did share a story with you, back in 2006, about my buying makeup for my wife. It was embarrassing. And I haven't learned anything since. (Except that they stopped making the 'creamy peach' color. Which figures. As soon as I figured out what I was supposed to get, they changed it to something else.)

Anyway, I called Older Daughter.

Older Daughter and her husband Hank -- and their dog, Cork -- were up at our house this weekend from Indianapolis. Hank took the bus back to Indy on Christmas Eve. He sings at his church (he gets paid for it) and the choir director had an absolute fit when Hank suggested that maybe, this year, after the year he and his wife have had, maybe they could skip the singing this year and let his wife enjoy the company of her family at Christmas.

Mind you, Older Daughter didn't seem too upset about missing all of our traditional gatherings before she married Hank... but that's another story. And they've had a tough year. An awful year. And the choir director finally agreed that if Hank could procure a substitute he could miss Christmas. And Hank actually did find someone -- but the substitute fell through. So Hank had to be on the bus back to Indy Monday morning.

But Hank was in my house Saturday morning, and his wife, too, but neither of them answered when I called my daughter's phone.

"Call Younger Daughter," Long Suffering Spouse directed and I pushed the necessary buttons. I'm like her own personal voice-activated system. Who needs high tech?

But Younger Daughter didn't answer either.

"Call the house," my wife said, and I called.

When the answering machine picked up I growled, "Where are all of you? Don't you ever answer your phones?" I can tell you this: If I failed to answer my telephone when they were calling me I'd catch holy heck for it.

We waited and fumed. I'm sure it didn't really take as long as it seemed for one of them to realize that they were supposed to do something. One called back and answered my wife's questions and the order was finalized.

"Cash or charge?" asked the nice saleslady as I reached for my wallet, bulging with Christmas greenbacks, all Cash Station fresh.

"Charge," my wife said, waving me off.

"But the whole point of this is to use the cash and then we're done."

"Oh, we'll use it alright. But this will be too much. We'll be out in no time if we pay cash here and we still have lots more to buy."

"But we agreed that this would be our budget...."

"And it will be," my wife said, reassuringly.

"But not if we're charging things." My retail-induced torpor had not yet settled in. I still had some power of reasoning. But it was pointless and I should have saved my strength.

We then got sweaters and shirts and I made my wife buy a new purse -- "they're all too big!" she protested, but I found a nice one that was just about the size of the one she was using (the one she tells me is falling apart). And we went to Lord & Taylor and found a hat that Youngest Son wanted and we went to 16 other places where we didn't find anything at all and the crowds began to get thicker and thicker and the pace of travel within the stores slowed to a zombie-like shuffle.

One of my cousins has a daughter getting married on Saturday and I thought we'd try the wedding registry at Macy's. This proved to be a mistake. When we did get her registry printed out, we found almost nothing on it. The girl's mother -- my cousin -- is an outdoorsy type and apparently this apple did not fall far from the parental tree. In fact, the girl's fiance proposed while they were on a mountain climbing trip in Alaska. They're probably registered at Dick's Sporting Goods, but there wasn't one of these in the mall. There was however a Crate and Barrel. You can get married in Illinois without an extensive registration at Macy's -- the carpetbaggers -- but a much more detailed registration at Crate and Barrel is a condition of receiving a license.

So we stopped at Crate and Barrel too and got the registry -- but it wasn't that extensive and, worse, everything on it seemed to have been bought already.

It was somewhere around this point that I reached my limit. I warned Long Suffering Spouse that I was going to melt down like a toddler at any moment. For one thing, my back was killing me. The zombie shuffle may have caused it. Standing in long lines may have caused it too. I only knew that I needed to sit down.

But the way home wound through Costco and, as it turned out, Target. We had to leave the mall to go to Costco. When we left, three cars were vying for our parking space. I dimly remembered I was supposed to thank my wife, but I wasn't sure why.

We had shirts to buy at Costco -- and diapers and formula -- and there was other stuff, too. By this point I couldn't really say what we bought. I did notice we charged this load, too. But most of my cash had disappeared somewhere along the way and what remained was insufficient for this purpose. And, at this point, I no longer cared.

I don't know what we were looking for at Target. I'm pretty sure we didn't find it.

After Target, Long Suffering Spouse took pity on me and took me home. The girls were out shopping with their husbands. I let Cork out of his travel cage. In gratitude he let me eat my lunch with minimal interference.

Long Suffering Spouse said she was going back out there, back to a different mall this time. I protested. "It's too awful out there," I said. "We're not done," she said. "Give me what's left of your cash."

And she went out. Eventually, she came back. My cash did not.

You might have noticed that Youngest Son has not made an appearance in this account, except as the recipient of a hat. That's because my wife did allow him to go to his end of the world party Friday night. He showed up, somewhat the worse for wear, about 5:30 p.m. on Saturday evening. He kept insisting he was "fine," but I knew better. For one thing, he didn't ask to go out Saturday night.

Oldest Daughter's dog Cork weighs about 70 lbs. these days. But he still thinks he's a puppy and a lap dog. He proved this after Long Suffering Spouse left to return to the retail wars. I tried to nap. Cork clambered up into my lap. I think he was trying to keep me awake. He kept licking my face and nipping at my hands.

Eventually, we both went to sleep. I never got online to do anything here.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On Sundays, Long Suffering Spouse and I like to go to 7:00 a.m. Mass. On Saturday night both our daughters told my wife they'd join us, but by 6:55 a.m. neither one of them had stirred.

I went downstairs to write the check for the envelope. That of necessity took me into the den, where Hank and Older Daughter were asleep on the futon. I turned off the TV. Older Daughter sat up. "I can come with you," she said.

"I'm leaving now," I said.

"I can go," she said.

"I'll be in the car," I said, "and when your mother comes down, we'll go. If you're there, I'll take you."

Long Suffering Spouse could not have been more than a minute behind me when I came down the stairs. I figured we'd be gone and back and Older Daughter would probably not even remember the conversation. I went to the car and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Older Daughter came out first, still half asleep, but ambulatory now, at least after a fashion.

"Where's your mother?" I asked.

"Haven't seen her," she mumbled.

So I waited some more.

Younger Daughter and Long Suffering Spouse came out together a few minutes later.

If it had been 7:15 Mass we'd have been right on time.

That does happen to us a lot.

But this was one of those times when it absolutely was not my fault.

Another thing I do on Sunday mornings is the laundry. We get back from church and have breakfast, then Long Suffering Spouse goes to the grocery and I do the clothes. It's not a bad arrangement -- it keeps me out of another store.

Long Suffering Spouse left and I got our basket and went to the basement -- only to find the washing machine bulging with someone's wet clothes.

These eventually were determined to belong to Youngest Son. Hard to believe these would still be wet from Friday afternoon -- but I suppose they stayed wet because there was so much crammed into the machine. I got him out of bed to make him put them in the dryer. But my schedule was shot.

I heard a news story on the radio when the alarm went off. I knew immediately I would need to do a post about this on my public blog. On a normal day, even with the laundry, this would have been a two hour task at most. I still might be able to execute my plan for the Second Effort Christmas transition, I thought, as I started.

But the dog did not want me typing. That was one thing. And there were others. I can't remember them all. All I know is that this two hour task lasted pretty near eight -- and my laundry wasn't done until halftime of the Bears game either -- and the Bears were playing a late game, in Arizona.

I suppose there were compensations. Olaf made gløgg on Sunday evening. But I kept telling myself I had to be in court at 9:00 a.m. Monday on the other end of the county. And I did make it there. But I never made it here.

Blasts from the past -- Curmudgeon recalls a Christmas concert past

You see, kids, once upon a time, back in the dark, murky past, we didn't have the Internet. Our innermost secrets were actually private -- not shared with the entire world by blog or Facebook or Twitter. Sometimes these innermost thoughts were preserved, however, in a diary.

Letters and diaries enrich our history. In particular, the private musings of public figures have sometimes revealed keen insights into events and personalities. But even the hurried scribblings of inconsequential individuals -- (like thee or me) who lived through major historical events -- can be helpful to historians in understanding how common people felt and thought and dealt with their times.

Of course, nowadays, letters are pretty much obsolete. If anyone still keeps a blotter copy of their handwritten letters sent by post or messenger, please leave a comment; proof of the existence of such a person today might be akin to discovering a Tasmanian Tiger or passenger pigeon in the wild.

I don't know whether people keep diaries anymore. This blog is as close as I come now.  But I did keep a diary once, for awhile, starting in 1990 and lasting, intermittently, for about four years.

This morning it occurred to me to look at what the Curmudgeon-in-formation had to say 22 years ago.

Most of it was raving about my job. I've said here before that Dilbert's pointy-haired boss and one of my old bosses had a lot in common. But that's entirely unfair to Dilbert's pointy-haired boss.

But I also found a story, this morning, about a school Christmas activity, back when Older Daughter was only 6. I've pulled that story from my old diary this morning, changing and deleting names and specific identifications as necessary, but otherwise editing as little as possible.  The diary entry doesn't mention Christmas at all -- but, given the time of year, there was surely a Christmas tie-in.

Step with me now, into the Wayback Machine, and set the controls for December 1990....

* shimmer * shimmer * shimmer * shimmer *

Thursday morning started badly. I was supposed to walk Older Daughter to church. She had volunteered to sing for the first grade Mass that morning and was required, by official note home from school, to be in the church by no later than 8:05 a.m. or be barred from participation.

I had a 9:00 a.m. deposition downtown and I was therefore blessed with a little extra time that morning -- time enough to take Older Daughter to school, certainly. I could walk her to the church, nod courteously to all the other good fathers and mothers dropping off their respective offspring for choir duty, and continue on the two further blocks to the train station, good father merit badge for the day well earned.

I was ready in plenty of time. Older Daughter was not.

In fact, it was already 8:00 and Long Suffering Spouse and I were screaming our respective lungs out at her: Finish getting dressed, eat something, go to the bathroom (she honestly has to be reminded about this, as her bladder does not apparently wake up for at least an hour after the rest of her). Finally, we had gotten to the stage where we could yell at her about putting on her coat.

It was too late to walk. Not if we were bound by this seemingly inflexible 8:05 deadline.

So we drove.

Now there's no place, on a school morning, to park by the church. The parking lot doubles as the school playground. If there are places you can park, I don't know about them. So I thought I would drive Older Daughter to the church, drop her off, and continue back home. I still had plenty of time to do that and walk to the train.

But I neglected to consult my child about my plans. And I didn't calculate the angle of the Sun.

As soon as I turned the corner onto the street heading toward church, I knew I was in serious trouble. The Sun was just high enough in the sky, and my windshield just dirty enough, to make seeing anything like cars or people, especially short people, such as children, virtually impossible. I was close to panic.

Somehow, though, I got Older Daughter to the church entrance without injuring anyone. The dashboard clock still read 8:04. I opened the door and wished her a good day and then she began to cry. "I can't go in by myself," she said. So around the block we went, parking this time on a sidestreet (only slightly illegally) and marching the roughly two blocks from there, behind the school to the church. We were considerably later than 8:05.

Amazingly, though, there were only two other people in the church who appeared part of Older Daughter's class. There was one other little girl and her mother. Even the music teacher was not there. Thus, I suppose, it was just as well that I went in with her. I know if I had been Older Daughter, in that situation, dropped off and walking in alone, only to find myself virtually alone, or maybe completely alone (the other girl's mom did say they'd only been waiting a few minutes) I might have panicked.

Anyway, the music teacher breezed in a few minutes later and I was finally able to leave. I got home by 8:20. Long Suffering Spouse was at the door, also close to panic. (Panic plays a major role in our lives, apparently.) She thought the car had broken down again.

But I was only ten minutes late for the deposition.

When do the holidays end? An unscientific survey

When do the Christmas holidays end?

I've been reliably informed that the Chicago radio station that was playing Christmas music 24/7 since early November switched back to whatever its regularly scheduled format is on the Feast of St. Stephen (December 26).

I'm back in the office today. I expect that the holiday decorations at City Hall and the County Building will be gone today. Last week I saw workmen dismantle the Christkindlmarket that had been set up in the Daley Center Plaza before Christmas.

The City of Chicago will begin accepting Christmas trees for mulching on Saturday, January 7. The Catholic Church marks the Feast of the Three Kings on Sunday, January 8. I used to think that was the official end of the holiday season -- but the Allstate BCS Championship Game won't be played until Monday, January 9. The Magi will be well on their way back to the mystic East by the time that game ends. But how can the holidays be over when there are still bowl games going on?

Our Christmas tree might come down this coming weekend -- but it might have to wait a week, depending on what else needs to be done. Long Suffering Spouse returns to her classroom this Thursday. But Younger Daughter doesn't head back to school until coming weekend. Youngest Son doesn't start his second semester until after the Martin Luther King, Jr. Day holiday on January 16. How can the holidays be over when the kids aren't yet back in school?

When he worked for the county, my friend Steve used to consider King Day as part of the holiday season. Indeed, since Cook County offices are closed twice in February (for Lincoln's Birthday and Presidents' Day) and then again on the first Monday in March (for Casimir Pulaski Day), Steve used to say the holidays lasted until then (just in time, he might sometimes add, for the start of Chicago's High Holy Days -- the many observances of the Feast of St. Patrick).

So I'm uncertain. I therefore open the floor up for discussion. When do the Christmas holidays end in your opinion? And (if different) when should they end?

Curmudgeon is techno-busted

It was Christmas Eve. I had the morning set aside to clean off my desk at home. Oldest Son and his wife Abby would be staying with us tonight -- them and their dog, Rodent.

There are two ways a pack-rat can clean. There is the panic clean-up -- where everything loose is swept off the table and into a bag or box and hidden away somewhere where no one is supposed to look. A closet, perhaps. If there's room there. More likely, a room that will be declared 'off limits.' Depending on how (or whether) one remembers to bring all the stuff back after the guests have departed, such a room can quickly resemble the set of one of those awful 'Hoarders' TV shows.

The other method, and the one I greatly prefer, is the controlled clean-up. I move stuff from one pile to another, mostly, but I keep track of what I'm doing and how. I always assemble a large pile for recycling or shredding but, somehow, the pile on the desk doesn't look any different. I know this because Long Suffering Spouse tells me.

Anyway, the family computer is on my desk in the den. The old computer is like a spoiled child. Though I may urgently need to do something else, entirely independent of said computer, the machine will desperately require my attention. A grayed-out antivirus icon in the status was my clue Saturday that my controlled clean-up was going to have a computer maintenance feature as well.

The antivirus wanted to run a backup. This is my tentative toe-dipping into cloud-computing: I bought some online backup space with my latest antivirus renewal. I tried to back up my music files -- and found I would need three or four times the space I'd purchased in order to accomplish that task. So I let the antivirus backup business languish; I had other things to do. Now the computer would punish me for this.

One part of my clean-up routine was to transfer my files from the office into the home computer. That's how I back up. I have two mostly-equipped offices this way as well as some protection against machine failure. I put my work files on a thumb-drive at the office and bring them home in my briefcase. Moving my briefcase upstairs was an action item on my cleanup agenda. So I opened my briefcase to pull out the thumb-drive... and it wasn't there.

I yelped in frustration. I'd left the stupid thing in my computer at work. I must have gotten distracted on the way out the door yesterday.

Long Suffering Spouse heard me bellow. So did the neighbors, I suppose, but none of them offered to drive me downtown and fetch my thumb-drive. Long Suffering Spouse put on her coat.

The Kennedy was pretty wide open early in the morning of Christmas Eve. By pretty wide open I mean that what traffic there was was moving at NASCAR speeds. I was at the office in 15 minutes. The offending thumb-drive was right where I'd left it. I plucked it from the office machine and looked quickly around the Undisclosed Location.

You can imagine the Undisclosed Location this way: Paper here, paper there, paper everywhere. Boxes of paper. Shelves. Files. And office supplies. Mailing labels. I have a ton of mailing labels at the office. These are wonderful for getting Christmas cards out -- and, no, we hadn't done that yet and, yes, I know it was Christmas Eve already. If some spare brain cell triggered a recollection about mailing labels, however, I ignored it. I had mailing labels at home, too. And I was here to collect my thumb-drive.

My wife and I were home in another 15 minutes. I returned to my desk; she went back upstairs to whatever holiday preparations she was making there. I plugged in my thumb-drive.

My computer was still running the antivirus backup. There's a lot on the hard drive, I guess, and the computer (being very literal) needs to make sure it has scoured the entire thing before deciding that it has identified every file to be backed up (Since the antivirus seemed to be insisting that it must back up something, I'd decided to back up financial files -- in my case that definitely wouldn't take up too much external storage space.)

I suppose I should have thought about what I was doing before jamming the thumb-drive into its slot.

The thumb-drive slows e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g down. The pace of my controlled cleanup was never more than glacial to begin with; this was not helping.

After a period of time -- weeks I thought but, no, it was still Christmas Eve morning -- I finally figured out that there was a software conflict between the antivirus and the stuff on the thumb-drive.

See, my thumb-drive wasn't blank. It was given to me when thumb-drives were brand new technology and this one came loaded with a number of teeny-tiny little programs, none of which I cared one little bit about. But those programs had to load before I could move my files.

And they weren't loading.

I tried to safely eject the thumb-drive -- there's a procedure for this -- but the machine said a program was still running on the drive even though I'd terminated them all. Or thought I had.

And the antivirus icon was still grayed out. And nothing had yet backed up there either.

So... I thought... I'll do something else while I'm waiting.

I have a netbook computer that I also use at home. When the family computer gets this slow I can turn to that for the Internet at least. Read the comics. Stalk my kids on Facebook. That sort of thing.

I'd been looking at Facebook off and on Saturday morning but that wasn't particularly productive. So the thought occurred to me... why don't I dig out those labels? Long Suffering Spouse had only asked me about them 100 times or so. Here would be the Christmas Miracle: I actually did something I was asked to do!

So... I looked.

And looked.

And looked some more.

I began to wonder if perhaps the reason why I had so many labels in the office was that I'd brought the ones from home for some reason. Maybe they didn't print well on the printer at home?

There was just one more place I could look, but I was beginning to have serious doubts about that.

And, then, on impulse, I posted my frustration on Facebook. I didn't want to shout. I'd bellowed enough already. It seemed harmless enough to tell the world on Facebook. Long Suffering Spouse isn't on Facebook. And she was the only one I didn't want to tell about the labels. Not after she'd driven me downtown once already.

I tiptoed up the stairs and into our room. Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter were sitting on the bed. I didn't really look to see what they were doing; I understood that they were doing artsy-craftsy stuff.

I tried to look casual. I tried to look casually, too, if you see the distinction. No... not in the bookshelf. No... not on the desk....

"Looking for something?" I could hear the barb in Long Suffering Spouse's question.

"Um," I said. I looked at what my wife and daughter were doing and, for the first time, I noticed Younger Daughter's laptop was open.

Busted. On Facebook.

But the antivirus cleared up eventually. Last night, was it?

Closed for the Holiday

I'm sitting at my desk here at the Undisclosed Location -- a location I'm going to have to abandon in a month -- hoping to get a phone call about a check. Not expecting, mind you, merely hoping.

I'm usually not anxious for the page to turn on the calendar. I've begun to realize there are more years behind me now than ahead -- and why should I want to add to that imbalance?

But I'll make an exception for 2011. I'm ready to shake the dust of 2011 from my sandals and move on. I'm hoping for better in 2012 on all fronts. Not expecting, mind you, but hoping.

After the Last Supper, Jesus went into the garden at Gethsemane to pray. He knew what was coming. Still, He asked His Father -- you know, just in case -- if it was at all possible, whether He might yet avoid crucifixion. He concluded, though, "Not My will, but Thine."

It's a prayer that's been a comfort to me, when I've remembered to say it, many times recently.

As a male, as an American, and particularly as a lawyer, I want to be in control. I want to control my destiny. But I've been forced to realize that so much is beyond my control. I can do the best job I can for the client. I can't make the appellate judges read my brief. I can charge a fair price. But I can't make the client pay the bill. I can serve my clients honestly and faithfully, but I can't make them hire me for the next matter (particularly when I can't even get the judges to read the brief).

I can't give up -- that's yielding to despair -- and it's pathetic. But I can give up control. I can do what I can do. After that, not my will, but Thine.

I never could run. My Youngest Son runs a couple of miles just to get loose. I had to run a mile in gym class in high school and the battle for last place was between me and the grossly obese kid. He usually finished ahead of me. And I hadn't then been a smoker. I ran like I was wearing high lead boots.

And I haven't gotten any better at it since, I assure you. I feel this morning like I'm trying to run in high lead boots in ankle deep sand. Some days are worse: I feel like I'm running in neck-high water. This is why I am so tired. I am fighting everything. My practice. My bills. My failures. Because I can't say -- and sincerely mean -- not my will, but Thine.

The Internet gives a Protestant theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr, credit for this prayer (though good Catholic boy that I am I keep trying to tie it to St. Francis instead):

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

I want you to know -- I want me to know -- I'm working at it. I'm trying to work at it, anyway. Not my will, but Thine.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

Some assembly required? *Shudder*

I've stated in the sidebar here for years now my belief that the three most dreaded words in the English language are "Some Assembly Required." This is something I sincerely believe.

One of my favorite comic strips, Brewster Rockit, is having a little fun illustrating the concept this week:

(From the Chicago Tribune Comic Kingdom site.)

(Ditto)

I remember hearing the late Bill Veeck explain how he tried to assemble a rocking horse one year for his kids. (This was Veeck's second go-round as a father, and he was already a big time, big league baseball operator.) He consumed a number of barley pops during the course of the endeavor and, when he announced he was done, his wife, Mary Frances, pointed out that the head was where the tail should be and vice versa. "That's no problem," said Mr. Veeck. "We'll just call him Charlie O. Finley."

I'd forgotten the story over the years -- there are only so many synapses that can remain connected at any one time, even if one is not trying to dissolve as many as possible in an ocean of ethanol -- but the story came back to me vividly one Christmas Eve as I tried to assemble a rocking horse for my own kids. I did no better than Mr. Veeck -- and my wife, not surprisingly, didn't get the Charlie O. Finley reference.

Some people are blessed with hand-eye coordination. I am not. I tell people all the time that if I'd had better hand-eye coordination, I'd have been able to find honest work. My junior high shop teacher called me 'his little disaster.'

I didn't find out until much later that there are apparently a lot of lawyers who are lacking in the mechanical or craftsman department. I didn't know it as a kid. My father was a lawyer, but he was a craftsman too. He was the kind of guy who liked going to hardware stores and generally found something useful whenever he'd go. The old Sears store on State Street, the "World's Largest Store," was a favorite lunchtime haunt for my dad. Because he was also an educated, professional man, he'd explain his fascination with gizmos, gadgets and the latest power tools with the famous quote by Archimedes (give me the proper lever and I will move the world).

My father tried to pass along his love of tinkering and building things to me. He'd buy me models. I'd glue my fingers together. The ball of plastic stuck to my sleeve would look nothing like the P-51 Mustang on the box. My father would invite me to assist him in his shop on one project or another -- but I'd get bored and difficult.

Years later, I worked for a guy whose father -- who was not a lawyer -- also failed to pass along his mechanical inclinations. My boss told the story about how his father completely lost his temper one day. My boss was in high school and his dad asked him to fetch a wrench. He brought a screwdriver instead, not knowing the difference.

This story helped me on two levels. I wasn't alone in my incompetence -- and I wasn't the most incompetent apprentice ever.

My wife is the fix-it person in our family. (My dad figured that out early on -- and was pleased as punch to have someone who could understand him when he explained to how to install this or take out that.) For my part, however, I have come to accept what I am, and what I'll never be able to do. But if I ever became King of the World, one of my first decrees would be to ban the sale of partially assembled toys.

And partially assembled furniture.

Don't even get me started on furniture....

Youngest Son shows up, takes keys, leaves dishes

Youngest Son has returned to the Curmudgeon home, arriving late yesterday afternoon. We thought he was to be driven by a baseball teammate who had to pass through Chicago anyway on his way to points elsewhere but, in the event, he was chauffeured by one of his high school classmates who lives near us. He decided to drive up into Wisconsin, fetch Youngest Son, and bring him back.

"Why?" I asked, when the kid came in the house to get a glass of water.

"I was bored," he said.

"How long have you been home?" I asked.

"A week."

"So your folks are already sick of you."

"Pretty much," he admitted.

I'm not one of those who sniffles and pouts about the "empty nest." I'm happy when the kids go, happy to see them when they come back -- and increasingly anxious, and well nigh desperate, to see the collegians go by the end of Christmas Break.

With two kids home, one will take my chair, one will take the couch and both will fight over what to put on the TV. Neither will wish to watch anything I want. Both will stay up far later than normal people. Much of the time they will wake me up when they stumble up the stairs. They'll leave lights on behind them. They'll sleep past noon.

And, yes, I am jealous.

It will be fun for a couple of days -- catching up -- hearing the few stories they think safe to share, talking about the classes they've taken and the classes they're planning to take. Youngest Son is going to pledge a fraternity next semester. He used to be a mix of Irish and Cuban -- now he'll be a Greek, too. Over Thanksgiving, after Youngest Son informed us of this decision (we'd never had a kid pledge a frat or sorority, although Long Suffering Spouse was Chaplain of her sorority, back in the day, and my son-in-law Hank was active in his frat) I went online and pulled this out:



Yes, Youngest Son plans to pledge Sigma Chi. Long Suffering Spouse looked at me with mixed wonder and consternation. "How do know stuff like this? More importantly, why?"

There's no good answer.

Our future pledge seems happy enough in college, so far. He says his offseason baseball conditioning is proceeding well, and to the satisfaction of his coaches, and he claims to have done well in his classes.

To those of you who don't yet have kids in college: Unlike grammar school and high school, you don't actually see the kids' report cards in college. Privacy concerns, you know. The schools are very sensitive about that. On the other hand, they seem to overcome these delicate feelings to make sure you see the tuition bills.

But I digress. Youngest Son dropped his dirty laundry in the living room, plopped on the couch, and went to sleep. His mother woke him to feed him. He ate. He insisted we put on a movie. He dozed.

Then his cell phone went off. And then he took the van keys and headed out.

I had to pick up his dinner dish last night after he left. This morning, when I started the van, I turned off the country station he'd left blasting on the radio, and removed the glass he'd left behind.

I'm happy to have him home. Really. But I can see where I'll get over it pretty darn soon.

Curmudgeon household so busy that...

I actually went to the grocery store yesterday. Solo.

Long Suffering Spouse almost completed the holiday baking this weekend. The cookie runs (the only reason some people talk to me at all) were supposed to have begun today -- but will be postponed now until Wednesday because...

Long Suffering Spouse did the Christmas shopping yesterday.

We've been postponing this -- much to my good wife's chagrin. She hates last-minute shopping. (I, on the other hand, can't quite see it: Christmas is still several days away. It's not even close to the last minute yet.) The reason for the delay has been strictly financial. I haven't brought a check home since mid-August. This has a deleterious effect on one's Christmas spirit. Mine, certainly.

But we must appear with presents for Nochebuena at Abuela's house. My wife's sister Josephine and her new husband Ferdinand will have presents (gift cards or bottles) for all of our kids, a bottle of scotch for me, and a sweater for my wife that she'll hate. Josephine's kids are younger; her oldest is in college, the youngest in third grade. Josephine favors two of her four kids; her partiality is obvious to strangers in the street. Long Suffering Spouse and I think more highly of the other two. Someone has to.

I floated the idea of not bringing presents this year -- if you can't tell family you're having a crappy year, who can you tell? -- but Long Suffering Spouse would have none of it. We're using her schoolteacher's salary to try and keep up the minimums on the credit cards during this downturn, so I was reduced to raiding a savings account for Christmas cheer. We have two. Between them, they could barely make one mortgage payment. Now they can't do even that. There used to be more there, but what could we do? At this special time of year, Long Suffering Spouse had to go out and buy Christmas gifts for people she doesn't much like and which they won't appreciate with money we can't afford to spend. Tra la la la la la la.

Younger Daughter -- home from school as of the end of the past week -- volunteered to go with my poor wife on this mission. Long Suffering Spouse offered me dispensation. After confirming, as best a clueless male can, whether this was really dispensation or a loyalty test, I agreed to stay behind and finish the week's laundry. I probably did not adequately conceal my relief.

I watched the Bears self-destruct again and tried to work on a PLA that needs to be in the hands of the referring attorneys by Christmas. Where was this work earlier?

I was actually making progress when Long Suffering Spouse reported in from the field.

Crowds were miserable, she said, prices were high, parking well nigh impossible. Nothing on sale was worth buying; anything worth getting was overpriced. She and Younger Daughter were going to a different mall.

This was when I mentioned the groceries.

Sunday is grocery day in the Curmudgeon household. I sometimes accompany my wife on this mission; usually I stay home. I could tell from the gathering dusk, however, that my wife was never going to finish what she was doing and get to the grocery store. So I volunteered.

Long Suffering Spouse protested; she'd get to it, she insisted. You don't have to, she told me. I persisted. "The list is on the refrigerator," she finally said, "and we need milk, too, and orange juice." I'll remember, I said. "Call me if you have problems." I will, I promised.

Then, screwing my courage to the sticking-place, I headed for the local Jewel.

Long Suffering Spouse has a methodical approach to grocery shopping. She starts are one side of the store (the Osco side) and goes up and down each aisle until she winds up on the other side of the store (the produce section). But I had such a short list. I steered my cart right up the middle of the store, toward the back, where I knew the milk was kept.

My method was simple: Find the stuff I knew, in the places where I knew where to look, then worry about everything else.

A simple plan, but complex in execution: A GPS would have been unable to track my progress through the store... up this aisle... down the next... doubling back... first left, then right... wasn't I just in this aisle? Why didn't I see this before? I knew where to look for things. The modern grocery store is arranged so that anything I want is on the bottom shelf. I think security was following me before I was through; my course was that erratic.

One of the top items of the list was gluten-free pretzels. I don't think I ever heard of 'gluten' until the last couple of years; I'm still not sure what it is. I only know two things: (1) some people need to eat "gluten-free" and (2) most things I want to eat probably contain it. These pretzels were needed for the very last item on my wife's holiday baking list (she dips them in chocolate).

I found pretzels in several aisles of the store, pretzels of every size and shape -- but nothing that said "gluten-free." This was one of my calls to Long Suffering Spouse in the course of the mission. (No, she told me, "0 transfats" is not the same as gluten-free.")

Knowing she was already highly stressed, I limited my calls as much as possible. Still, I probably called four times. And I forgot to buy bagels. And I got the wrong paper towels. And I got the wrong potatoes, too. But I remembered the game pieces for the holiday contest the store is running. And I remembered to bring and use our cloth bags.

Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter didn't get back from the stores until nearly 9:00pm. I got the better end of this deal by far.