So I've been busy lately. Between my job, my freelance work and strange last-minute business trips to Tucson, I have not had that much time to go Christmas shopping.
Call me a cretin and a dork who should know better than to put off my Christmas shopping. It's your right. It's also my right to moon you while singing "Jingle Bell Rock" in falsetto, but that doesn't make it right. So there.
Anyway, I spent a chunk of the last several days trying to finish up my holiday purchasing. And I must report that's it's been a challenge.
Picture it: I am at the ShopKo on Mae Anne and McCarran Sunday night, trying frantically to find The Perfect Gift for my mother. I have no idea what to get her -- I've already gotten her several things, but I need one more thing because I've gotten my father one more thing, and I am a lunatic about these sorts of things.
The problem is I have no idea what to get my mom. She's got a bunch of clothing. She's not big into jewelry or bath lotion scented bead crap. And she'll yell at me if I get her anything fattening.
Frustrated, I leave ShopKo -- and it's SNOWING. I am home for the holidays, yes, but my car is in Las Vegas, where I reside at the moment. Thus, I am driving my mother's 1994 Mercury Grand Marquis, a front-wheel-drive monstrosity that invokes images of a Sherman tank, except that the tank probably handles better. And in the snow? A drunk hippo on skis is easier to control on icy roadways than this thing.
Wanting some comfort at this decidedly unfestive moment, I start the car and turn on the radio. Tragically, the worst song in the history of Christmas is blaring: "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus."
What fool wrote this song? Yes, it's supposed to be some cute drivel about an ignorant child who's too stupid to realize that Santa is actually Daddy. But let's analyze this for a moment: Isn't the impression that Mommy is macking with some other guy besides Daddy going to be somewhat traumatic for this little girl? Since when is perceived parental infidelity supposed to be charming? And what if "Santa" really isn't Daddy? What if Mommy has some sick Santa fetish and has resorted to bringing home sweaty mall Santas for some egg nog and some extracurriculars while Daddy is hard at work trying to earn enoght money for a Christmas tree? Huh? Well, then, THIS IS NO LONGER A VERY CUTE SONG, BUT RATHER A WOEFULLY DEPRESSING PICTURE OF A SOON-TO-BE BROKEN FAMILY, ISN'T IT?!?
This song has almost sent me over the edge. I am now cranky, and as I drive through the parking lot, an oblivious guy walks right in front of me. I must admit: I actually give it a second thought before I decide to stop for him.
Now, don't glare at me. Don't make me threaten to moon you again. I never would actually hit a pedestrian on purpose. And besides, you've had second thoughts like that too. Santa knows, for goodness' sake.
After letting the pedestrian lumber on merrily to live another day, I just say screw it, and manauver myself and the Marquis to the Starbucks just down the road at Sierra Highlands Drive. I go in and get a Gingerbread Latte, with no foam and no whipped cream.
I get my warm, tasty and grossly overpriced beverage and make my way to one of those round, mutant wooden tables. I sit down, take a sip and watch the snow fall all around me.
Then it dawns on me: I have a humor column to write for the Trib.
Therefore, to my mother, I say: Merry Christmas, Mom. This column is for you.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who is glad to be home for the holidays, although he wishes someone would turn the heat up. Jimmy's column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.