A dead tree glows in the corner, still drinking water almost two weeks after I chopped it down. The annual Jezebelle-themed, Shipley-Green Christmas card has been created and distributed to those who have 1) not moved in the last five years or 2) have provided me with an updated address. The stockings are hung with a slight chance they might be filled with something affordable and useful—a book of matches or an economy pack of mechanical pencils, perhaps. Presents? Well, that’s a different story.
Happy Holidays. Merry Christmas. Please don’t overreact, but we’re not participating in any gift-giving activities this year. None. The fact of the matter is that we don’t need anything and you probably don’t either.
Moving from a 1200 square-foot apartment with lots of storage to a cement bunker that’s about half the size made it absolutely clear that we have too much stuff. Bikes. Dishes. Books. Furniture. Kitschy knick-knacks. Vintage paper goods. Everything we’ve ever wanted is probably in a box somewhere. So, with that, we’re out. Of course, if you insist of getting us something, we’d gladly accept a 12-pack of High Life or Boulevard Pilsner—but only if you have the time to share it with us.
Last year I bought my mom a couple of Pink Flamingos for Christmas, but I think she would have been just as happy (maybe happier?) with a hug.