A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || December 24, 2000 || 11:27 am

Come over here, sit down; I wanna talk with you about something.

Seems right now that the world is on this furious Christmas build-up and tomorrow morning or tonight at midnight or whenever, it will explode. The climax is the summation of it all for LOTS of people. I would like you all to take pause, however, and ponder the couple of days leading up to Christmas, most especially Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve is sexier than Christmas, to me. Christmas Eve is warm and inviting and relaxing and sentimental and wonderful. Basically, it’s everything that Christmas SHOULD be, but isn’t most generally. Christmas is a frenzied madhouse, an explosion with assloads of shrapnel and debris.


When I was a kid, my sister and I would always sleep in the same room on Christmas Eve and one or the other of us always awoke around 3 a.m. and lie there twitching for an hour or so before finally succumbing and waking the other. Most often this was my sister Cherie. I swear to God, she slept like Denali for 364 nights out of the year, and some days too, but throw the scent of Santa Claus and some tinsel in the air and she came unstrung. She would wake me, and I would be cross at her and shush her for what seemed like ages (but was really only half an hour) before succumbing and we would both put frilly robes and matching slippers on (ick…how very “It’s A Wonderful Life”). We would then pad down the hall and approach our parents’ bedroom reverently, waking them gently.

After fifteen minutes of quiet cajoling, they would pile out with us and we would excitedly go through the gift ritual.

Our gift appetites satiated, we would then all climb back into bed and sleep contentedly for another 3 or 4 hours before getting back up. Then it was time for a luscious Christmas brunch, prepared family-style, and we would lounge and play the rest of the day. We were unencumbered by obligations to anyone and anything else. My parents had the right idea.

*sigh again*

I want those kind of Christmases back.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)