Endangered Christmas List

"What would you like for Christmas?"

The only question that freaks me out more is "Will that be for here or to go?" because I'm always thinking "Well, I'd like to leave eventually."

The Christmas question separates the population into two distinct groups. The first has a neat little list of the items they want organized and alphabetized on an Excel spreadsheet with pictures, prices and articles from Consumer Reports to supply Santa with the peace of mind that he is getting this person exactly what they want for the holidays. Although coal is not a sought-after item from the guy whose got a beard that's long and white and does not spend his time fighting orcs or helping midgets sneak onto other peoples' property, now that I live on my own, coal could go a long way in heating the house. Unfortunately, the kind of stuff that lands you on the naughty list as a kid are things like not responding to your parents after they call you the first time and remembering to make your bed. As an adult, I'd venture to guess that in order to get on the naughty list you'd have to commit tax fraud or be involved with money laundering and in that case the only people showing up at your house in suits are lawyers.

The second group of people who inhabit the holiday season are the people who have no idea what they want because they are not a bunch of needy, materialistic penny-pinchers and are perfectly content with what they have, or maybe they just don't want to put the thought into it, who knows? I, myself fall into this latter group mainly because I don't play video games and the gifts I'd like now are classified more as "essentials" than exciting. I'm really only aware of my need for something when it's an absolute necessity and I run out of it.

The downside to my docile demeanor is that I am incredibly difficult to shop for because I answer the Christmas question the same way a younger brother responds to being asked why he set all of his sister's dolls on fire.......a shrug and an unenthusiastic "I don't know."

One Christmas, my dad had finally had it with my passivity and said "WHAT DO YOU WANT??!! A PET??!!"

Joking around, I said "Yes oh caring and accommodating father of mine, I'd like a pet rhino."

Without missing a beat he asked "male or female?"

I actually thought about it and figured that female rhinos are probably much neater and more organized than their raging and rampaging male counterparts so I said "Female."

Christmas came and went that year and I had been denied my singular desire. So I asked, "Why didn't I get the rhino?"

My dad said "I didn't know if you wanted a baby or a full-grown, adult rhino."

Again, I thought about for an unreasonable amount of time for a question that had more comedic value than anything else. I figured while baby rhinos probably poop more often, cleanup would be easier than cleaning up after a fully-grown rhino whose poops are probably my size, so I said "Baby. I'd like a female baby rhino."

This joke has gone on for years now and recently my dad had told that there was some department store selling a replica of a rhino. The store manager wanted some absurd amount of money for an item that was obviously never going to sell and while my dad had managed to talk him down several hundred dollars, he couldn't get the price down to something worth spending on what would ultimately be a gag gift. I feel saddened by the realization that my one demand of December will never be met, but the thought of a man standing in the middle of a Marshall's, haggling with a manger over the price of a 3'x5' replica of a rhino is nearly enough to alleviate the anxiety of elves everywhere and strike this from my Christmas list for good.

Cirque du Salami

Why is it that at any sort of function where they serve a dinner, the plates they give you are the size of a tea coaster? I always end up piling a bunch of crap on making my plate look like a diorama of Mt. McChicken and as I head back to my table, I have to balance the bountiful feast and turn myself into some sort of acrobat with an appetite from the Cirque du Salami.

Rubber Match

If I were to ever go missing, my parents would walk to the end of the driveway, put a hand on their forehead, stand on their tippy toes for a second and go "What a shame, he was a good kid."

When Tupperware is missing from the house posters are put up on telephone poles around town, the SWAT team gets called in, Detroit area gang connections are tapped into and lives are at stake.

Golden Oldies

I just learned that the women in my grandfather's apartment building absolutely love him and would you like to know why they're drooling in their dentures? It's because he has a full head of hair! At 26, that's really frustrating because women my age are looking for a guy with a PhD., abs and the DIY wherewithal to build a refrigerator out of cardboard, aluminum foil and an oscillating fan. It is comforting to know I can go to the senior center, flaunt my follicles and have any Edith, Eleanor or Edna I want.

Squad Goals

I’d like to tell you about one of the most emotionally confusing days in my life.
I played in a hockey league growing up and to that it was organized just meant that all of the kids got their gear on and found the ice, but what happened beyond that was controlled chaos.

One day, the team we were playing against didn’t have enough players show up, cuz who would’ve thought that kids wouldn’t want to wake up at 5 a.m on a Saturday? So my coach sends me over to play on the other team. The optimist in me would like to think that the rationale behind this decision was “oh, we better send them one of our best players” while the pessimistic side of me heard “You are the weakest link, goodbye!” (If you have a hurtful hypothesis about the choice, do like your mama said and keep it to yourself) My normal teams jerseys were blue and the other teams jerseys were red so they threw a yellow penny on me and called it a day. The other coach asked me my name, but he asked in that same tone of voice that you ask people if they want the last slice of pizza as you put your greasy paws all over it (I know, I know, you never ask that) Because of my penny the coach just called me “Yellow” the whole game. “Nice skating, Yellow! Way to go, Yellow!” I was offended for two reasons: 1. Mark is a one syllable name, it’s not that difficult and if you’re not going to use the information then why even ask. And 2. Although most kids my age think of “yellow” as 50% of the colors mentioned in a Wiz Khalifa song, thanks to Monty Python and the Holy Grail (a statement rarely ever used) I know that calling someone yellow is calling them cowardly so I felt as though he was shouting at me for being afraid of something in the 8th century, but at the same time I felt proud of myself for being so young and still having that knowledge. To compound the confusion, I scored two goals that game and scoring a goal against my usual team left me very uneasy. I was like “Do I celebrate or apologize?” My usual team ended up winning the game 6–3, so my additions to our adversaries accounted for 66% of our goals. I was heckled and hassled in the locker room and I was upset because “my team” had lost, but in one weeks time, order was restored and I got my team and my name back.

Love Train

Today I was thinking back on my trip to Europe and I'd like to share with you the scariest part of my experience. In order to go from Spain to Portugal we took a night train. I was nervous about this for several reasons: 1. If it's the title of a Guns n Roses song, it's probably a wild time given the fact that some of the bands other songs feature such horrifying themes as jungles, thorny roses and precipitation in November that isn't snow 2. This would be the only time in the trip I would be separated from the safety and security that came with traveling alongside my two sisters so I was not to happy about that. I got really judgmental really quickly as I started sizing up my roommates who were talking to each other in another language and I assumed were plotting to take my money and then take my life. At a glance, only one bald, burly Barcelonian with tattoos and a tank top made me nervous. While I'm never glad to see anyone injured, I was put at ease by the fact that this man had his leg in a cast and figured it'd be tough for him to do any klepto creeping with crutches. I had most of my things in a money belt under my shirt around my waist and there's no sleeping position that looks more natural and inconspicuous than sweating profusely and having your arms crossed in front of your groin. Luckily, I was in Europe so I planned on telling them I was having a dream that I was in a futbol match between Real Madrid and Barcelona so naturally there were a lot of fouls and free kicks. As I woke up from a rough night sleep on the Pick Pocket Express, through what I can only imagine was a miraculous midnight Muzzy sesh, Mr. Just For Manslaughter looks at me and and goes "You have a really weird sleeping stance." I was like "Can you not check me out while I'm sleeping?! Thanks!" Much to my amazement, I left the train with all of my items and later I found a note in my pocket that said "Call me xoxo, Carlos"