ah, christmas!

For probably the last decade or so, my mother’s Christmas gift-giving judgment has been rather seriously impaired by a few teensy illusions she’s harboring about me. I share a few with you now:

1) That she and I are the same age.

2) That as 69-year-old women, we both like knick-knacks and gewgaws and objets d’art like miniature porcelain shoes or wee crystalline menageries.

3) That I am, in fact, a hippopotamus, and that to clothe me requires the copious amounts of fabric found in tents or caftans or mumus (Not. And doesn’t).

4) That I want and LOVE — and look scrumdillyumptious IN — elastic-waist granny pants ( I don’t, NO ONE does, and if YOU have these, burn them, BURN THEM NOW. And, NO — don’t get all charitable on me and give ’em to the homeless. That is NOT a good deed, Jesus WON’T be impressed, and neither will the homeless because THEY DON’T WANT THEM EITHER!!)

5) That her, uhm, well-endowed daughter looks good in, oh, stretchy spandex sweaters COVERED WITH PEACH-COLORED FUR! YES, FUR. FURRR, I SAY!

S’true. One recent, best-forgotten year, a stretchy, peachy fur ball under the tree had MY name on it. It lurked silently, waiting to strike, a killer in shiny paper. The second I opened that gift, my sister looked at me and instantly bowed her head, as if in quiet prayer. But then she started shaking violently and covering her mouth so that the heaving howls of laughter would not escape.

Now, once in the privacy of my own home, I did try the damn thing on — you know, as a lark.

SWEET. FANCY. SLUTTINESS.

Stretched out over my “giftedness” — as one friend calls them — the peachy, furry badness did, ah, accentuate and suddenly, I saw new, previously rejected career paths yawning wide before me. But, tragically, I lacked the leopard print micro mini, metallic silver stilettos, and 6-inch hoop earrings necessary for such vocations. I mean, if mom was crossing her fingers that I’d start some kind of new ministry to the lonely and pervy, then she probably should’ve completed the ensemble.

6) That the sight of me in oversized sweatshirts with giant, appliqued daisies will make My Beloved’s blood pound with desire (It doesn’t. Wow. Surprisingly.)

7) That the proper purse for a “hippo-sized gal” is a hippo-sized purse with — what else?– giant, appliqued daisies. Or animals. Or craaazy, geometric shapes. (I think I could actually fit INSIDE these purses.)

8) That hot pink is MY color. Or perhaps electric blue.

9) That hot pink and electric blue TOGETHER are even better.

(Actually, I wear a lot of black.)

10) That hot pink is the new black.

11) That a gal who calls “Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street” one of her favorite musicals because she did the show in Seattle and loves it and has fond memories of it — of “Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street,” for Pete’s sake — that a gal like that, who still has her “Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street” cast sweatshirt complete with Demon Barber graphic — that a gal like this would be quite simply overcome by Christmas sweaters sporting kitties and teddy bears and Santas parading impertinently across her “giftedness.”

Ah, mom. DEAR Mom. Quite a history there.

But this year, THIS year, something entirely different happened …..