It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like …
Do not make me say it.
But anyway, it is. Beginning to look like … you know what. Five TV commercials out of six feature Babbo Natale hawking some useless damn thing or other — or better, hawking items that up until now you’ve never particularly associated with … that. Exempli gratia: mortadella, steam vacs, feminine hygiene products, masonry screws … that sort of thing.
Suddenly, the most fat-phobic country on the face of the earth is in love with a man with a pot belly. That is a reason to celebrate!
You can hardly fight your way through the door of the IperCoop without being picked up and hurled bodily into an avalanche of ribbons, poinsettia plants, and ornamental candle holders shaped like (a) angels (b) reindeer and/or (c) stars. The ones with all three are kitsch masterpieces.
Anyway. We have a tree. We drove one frigid evening to the F.lli Zerbini vivaio and picked it out. The very nice man who owns the place seemed crestfallen to tell us that he didn’t think the tree would live long given that they’re evidently yanked from the ground with some sort of root cutter in a process that reminds me of descriptions I’ve read of Nazi dentistry. (I haven’t conceded defeat by any means.)
It’s actually pretty, especially at night. (Pay no attention to those drifts of falling needles.) We sipped Bailey’s and decorated the tree and it was all so freaking wholesome and Norman Rockwell that afterwards I had to read the biography of Gilles de Rais in order to feel normal again.
Speaking of which: This seems as good a time as any to share the blessed news. We are officially an Ikea Family. No queer marriage and keine schwule in Ratzopoli, but Ikea is happy to consider us a family. We have our card and everything.
Well, of course it’s a start. When capitalism accepts you, all the rest just naturally follows.