Christmas Eve and the parking lot
As a beagle of some size, he has a colon the width of a municipal storm drain. You could drive a Buick through there, and he wouldn’t even wince. So I was never really worried. Besides, washing things has never been the little guy’s strong suit.
The Silly Putty proved a source of male-female tension all season long. At one point, the little guy smoothed it on his cheek, then:
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Does this look infected to you?” he asked, then moved his hand to reveal the flap of Silly Putty.
My wife, Posh, accused me of putting him up to that. I will only respond that of all the Silly Putty gags we might’ve done, that seemed in the best taste. It was the holidays, after all.
Another Christmas memory — a Hallmark moment — is how I parked a stranger’s car for her on Christmas Eve, in the notoriously congested Bed Bath & Beyond parking lot. For if there were ever a place that needed a dose of Christmas spirit, it is that sprawling, miserable place.
You could heat Moscow with the emotional fury building in that one parking lot. It’s Christmas Eve, after all, and here we have this rodeo of losers who’ve put things off till the very last minute, especially me.
In my case, the little guy revised his Christmas list, and though we never get him everything, not even close, I realized that we never picked up something on behalf of his Grandma, even though she’d sent a check right before Thanksgiving.
Every loser has a story, and that is mine.
So, I’m circling the lot in the Little German, which is an extra challenge, because the horn isn’t working, and how do you communicate in L.A. without a car horn, the only language everybody speaks?
I now must rely on my NASCAR reflexes to avoid collision, because the last thing I want for Christmas is a new fender on this rheumy-eyed old car. Basically, if someone hits me at this point, I’m just walking. Take it. Merry Christmas. Tschüss.
Eventually, I find an open spot, next to a driver who is trying to fit into the adjoining space — in out, in out — trying to park her Camry, a big block of cheese with four wheels and a five-year lease.
Anyway, I wait for her a moment, which is pretty generous in this parking lot filled with homicidal maniacs. Then I pull in, while she is still jockeying to straighten her car. In out, in out ....
I get out and walk over to assess the situation, which is flavored by the fact that her teen daughter has been standing outside her mother’s car for five minutes, looking horrified — the face of the victim in a slasher movie.
You know how sometimes you try too hard, and things go wrong, so you try harder, and things get even worse?
That pretty much describes my life. Ironically, that’s what has been going on in the parking space next to mine.
After all that jockeying, here is how her Camry looks: The right rear tire is up on a curb. The rear end is sticking out six feet. Essentially, it looks like a shoe would look if you tried to wham it in a toaster with a big hammer.
“Want me to try?” I offer, and the driver nods vigorously.
So, that is how I came to park a stranger’s car for her on Christmas Eve, a small gesture in this town of so much rampant kindness.
Finally, I will never forget New Year’s Day, which lasted four days this year, Jan 1 to 4. In fact, we’re still partying at our place, because that’s just how we
roll.
Best of all, those fine folks from Wisconsin, who when the fireworks went off before the Rose Bowl, reached for their muskets thinking deer season had begun.
Bright-eyed, and unfailingly sweet, they are some of the finest fans in the land, though they do all tend to look alike. In Wisconsin, diversity means one person weighs 140, the next person, 160, and so on. Sometimes they vary the color of their scarves. That’s about as diverse as things get back there.
Still, I’m applying to Ripon College next week. My dream job? Adjunct professor of sauerkraut.
“Gas up, kids,” I’ll tell them. “Life is short.”
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