Merry Eczemas

2009; kthnxbai. I am ever so glad to see the tail of you. OH, what’s that? You’re not quite done yet? You need to shove your slatternly begrimed face into mine one more time before you go? You need to be sure your hacking death rattle rings in my ears long into the new decade? Great. Cool. CHRISTMAS. I nearly forgot.

I’ve never been one of those, Scrooge McDuck, I hate Christmas types. I’ve always loved Christmas whole-heartedly. I turn up to one house after another and have delicious food driven down my throat like a fois gras goose and come away with enough soaps and nuts to last me half a year. The experience has always been nothing short of marvellous. This year, however, has been the first year I have thought of the festy season with exact the sentiment: “not too fussed”.
Let me add the disclaimer right now that I actually have no reason to actively dislike Christmas. We have money for presents, we are all healthy and our problems are trifling. I also realise that there are many, many people out there who are not so big on the holiday for good reasons. Maybe Uncle Mark gets maggot and gropes nieces, maybe Grandma Elsie doesn’t like the look of your “ethnic” boyfriend. I know, right? Family get-togethers can be a drag. But take a moment of compassion, if you will, for those of us who arise of Christmas morning and face a day (or two or three, depending on how many factions of the family we visit) with the need to be a perfect, creative, alternative, left-wing, artists daughter. Let me take you through a typically harrowing eczemas period.

Before the tinsel is even in the shop windows, I need to start thinking about presents. My family are good present givers. Good taste combined with esoteric pop-cultural knowledge and genuine thought usually leads to amazing gifts like a history of lingerie book or an obscure Bolivian percussion instrument. Against the mastered strokes of my family, however, I flounder, doggy-paddle style, in a constant struggle not to just by a gift pack form the Body Shop. Each gift given needs to reflect months and months of thought and effort. This year so far my only thoughts have been “shit it’s nearly Christmas. SHIT IT’S NEARLY CHRISTMAS! What’s on telly?” The present giving is always tempered with the age-old cry “don’t spend too much!” which is always meant well, but frankly, sometimes I’d rather a November phone-call with “don’t feel the need to hunt for a framed painting of an out-of-print children’s book from Norway in the 30’s. A voucher would be nice”, pouring like warm Christmas brandy down the line. Sweet relief.

After the presents are bought they must be wrapped in the most elaborate way conceivable. What started as a joke actually ended in a competition. Every year the presents look like they should be on a pedestal in a gallery. No shop-bought ribbons or lace mind you, no no no, accoutrement must be found in op-shops or made by hand, hip, retro or politically timely, and must ALWAYS be breathtakingly original. Cards are painted by hand, and the Christmas tree itself is usually a subversive one. Last year the lopped branch of a Jacaranda was painted pink with white polka dots and was strung with lights and African decorations.

The Christmas lunch is prepared; always elaborate and multicultural, not to mention vegetarian, gluten and preservative free and labour-intensive. The traditional John Lennon story about a murdered man is always read on Christmas eve, and we all get on the cans (read boutique wine) and have a very merry Christmas, but the entire affair is exhausting and competitive. It is nice to come from a family that wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I announced to the Christmas table I was gay or nipped out to the back veranadah to light a post-dinner spliff, but sometimes I think of the horrified looks I would receive if I didn’t take part in this year’s home-made, subversive bob-bon making, and I have a heavy heart.

So It’s off the library with me to look up obscure military hats to recreate for this year’s bon-bons, while visions of coleslaw and BBQ chicken from Coles dance in my head.