Let It Snow

Thanks to the unnatural amount of fluffy white we've had over the past week, this festive season is shaping up to be a refreshing change from those in recent memory. The abundance of snow, although doubtlessly wreaking havoc on the underside of my car, has got me in the mood like no amount of intensive marketing could. I feel like the good will and cheer might explode right out of the top of my head if I'm not careful.

I am, most definitely, a Christmas person. I love everything about it: the twinkly lights, the sparkly ornaments, the confections, Bing and Bowie's Drummer Boy, all of it. I have enough ornaments for two trees, a red tartan duvet cover, wreaths of every possible sort, red and green dish towels. It's a disease. I should probably seek treatment. I watch The Santa Clause, Home Alone and Love, Actually year round. I chose the apartment I live in, not because it was reasonably priced and in a fabulous neighbourhood, but because the odd-shaped living room has a four by five foot niche with an electrical outlet beside the window that is the perfect place for putting a tree. And the floor tiles, as old and hideous as they are, are green, and in my opinion anything looks better green.

For the past few years though, I have been frustratingly single and the festive season has lost a little of its glitz. I have come to think of the kissletoe as a weed, slightly more annoying than a garden full of crab grass. Couple that, excuse me, add to that the fact that the past few Decembers have passed with hardly enough snow to roll into a ball and you'll understand why recent Christmasses past have been little more than a day off. For ho-ho people in colder climates, a snowless Christmas is pointless. Who wants to curl up by the fire (not that I have a fireplace, but in my world candlelight counts as a fire) in your jams, drinking hot chocolate, watching cheesy holiday favourites when it still looks like Hallowe'en outside? Festive means snow. No sane person dreams of a green Christmas. In the meadow, we don't build a rain man. And I don't remember ever dashing through the grass.

This year I began my shopping, the only part of the season I could really live without, in November. Although every year my intentions are admirable, I usually wind up running around frantically at the last minute to scoop up whatever is left over after Those Creepy Organised People have picked it over. One dear friend boasted in September that she only had a few things to pick up and some wrapping to do. She had her aunt and her in-laws 'done' on Boxing Day of last year, which, although impressive, annoys the living hell out of people like me for so many reasons, not the least of which is that, historically, we haven't had a penny left over after the mad Christmas rush to attend the Boxing Day sales. It takes me until well into July to pay off December. And it's not like I go mad on spending. I make budgets and, with few exceptions, stick to them. I just don't have enough to put aside for the sales. My family, God love them, have recently started giving gift certificates for Christmas. I'm not entirely sure if they do it out of complete and utter disenchantment with the blatant commercialisation of the birth of Jesus or if they are just acutely aware of my heartfelt appreciation of the free shopping exerience. Thanks to their boundless generosity, I have managed to scoop up some gorgeous holiday baubles for myself half price the day after the big event, which explains why I have enough ornaments to deck my halls and two trees, should I ever be able to afford a place with two niches. In my current cash-strapped non-profit job, I have to say, it doesn't look good.

However, nothing, not poverty, not loneliness, not the blatant commercialisation of the birth of Jesus, can dampen my spirits this December because there's a great honking load of snow outside my front window. This year I am motivated to decorate. The red, tartan duvet has been on the bed for a fortnight. The tree, a small one but a tree nevertheless, is up and adorned. Bowls of extra ornaments are piled all over the house. The shopping is well underway. I have found lovely things for Perfect Niece and her darling little cousin, Lala, whose first birthday is Christmas Day. Perfect Nephy Poo is proving to be a bit of a problem. I can't buy him pink things or frilly things or sparkly things. In my experience, boys are absolute hell to shop for because virtually everything they want has the capacity to maim, mess or make noise. In years past, when I've asked what he would like, I have been told that anything with wheels will make him happy, and although I am so sick of getting him trucks, tractors and motorbikes, what the hell else do you buy for a boy? Teenage Mutant Micro Turbo Transformer Robots or some such nonsense no doubt, but don't they all have wheels? I'm lost, but I have a plan. When I see him next I will casually plant a toy catalogue in front of him. The first thing that makes him go "Phwoar!" is the thing he's getting, wheels or not.