Moose in the Kitchen

I’m five days behind on my advent calendar. Apparently, I have no real incentive to open those little paper doors promptly if I’m not rewarded with chocolate. Dwarves dressed in glitter and squirrels hurling pine cones are appropriately festive, but they aren’t edible and are therefore low on my list of priorities. But I’m all caught up now, if you were worried. Opening the December 3rd door revealed a man in a hospital bed attended by a nurse and a full-size Christmas tree (happy holidays! you’re dying of consumption!) which reminded me that I hadn’t paid my health insurance bill and now my bank account is sadly diminished. Not only is the advent calendar trying to convince me that silver glitter paint is an adequate substitute for chocolate, it’s forcing me to be responsible. THANKS FOR NOTHING, ADVENT CALENDAR.

I’m also feeling cheated by the 12 Days of Christmas. By my count we only get three days of Christmas, and that’s if you count New Year’s Eve. I’m all about reinvigorating selected medieval traditions – fiefdom and the black plague are welcome to remain in depressing Anne Rice movies, but someone bring back Twelfth Night already. A nice Yule log, some wassail and WE’VE GOT OURSELVES A PARTY.

Luckily for my need to party like it’s 1399, Kristin’s annual soiree is tomorrow evening. So I put the ugly Christmas sweaters out to air, a plan that would have worked better if it hadn’t rained last night. Soggy Christmas sweaters will lend a delightful Dickensian orphan atmosphere to the proceedings. I’d toss them in the dryer, but I’m worried about melted polyester and mangled sequins. Other than that, all I’ve done for the season is drag my Christmas boxes into the kitchen where I can trip over them every time I make tea.

But I did volunteer for the SPCA last week with Miss Kristin. We stood out in the frigid December air with collection jars as people came to stare at the frolicking kittens and sleeping puppies in the Christmas windows at Macy’s. If you need a high and want something healthier than pot or three cups of coffee, I recommend volunteering for the SPCA. People’s faces change when they see cute animals and they plow across the sidewalk to get a closer look. Fives and tens and twenties are stuffed into the jars with gratifying regularity and folks just get…nicer. It’s like the air is filled with laughing gas and fairy dust. I talked with a homeless woman about knitting, was told I would get a halo in heaven by an elderly lady with a thick Southern accent, and was sucked into a glaring contest with an ornery black cat. No official word on who won, but since the cat can’t speak English, I’m claiming victory. I would take an ornery cat over a fuzzy kitten any day. This is symptomatic of my cantankerous nature, no doubt. But even the keenest misanthrope would feel a reluctant thawing of his cold, wizened heart when standing around watching people go ever-so-slightly insane over pets that need homes.

[Edit: The advent calendar! Glitter dwarves and all.]