- April 19, 2024
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People look at me and they see a brute — chiseled features, always grimacing. They see a red-blooded, look-under-the-hood athletic type who, when he’s not starting fights, is busy jacking lumber for a cabin he’ll someday build in America’s heartland.
What they don’t see is a dainty pumpkin carver, delicately maneuvering blades inside of fruit to make silly shapes.
But this weekend, that’s exactly what I was.
Like every embarrassing thing every man has ever done, I was conned into it by girls. The same reason I dressed up for Jaci’s costume-mandatory-or-I-won’t-let-you-in party the day after.
But all this was nothing. Brushing the taste of cigarettes and scotch out of my mouth from the “Mad Men” getup I was working earlier, I remember that the holidays are just beginning.
The girls have so much more in store for us.
Weeks earlier, I remember, the boys and I stood in a circle inside my kitchen, holding brown bottles and discussing the subtleties of “NBA Jam.”
The girls crowded in the living room, making noise and writing things on paper. They were excited, jibber-jabbering and hee-heeing and, as I imagine all girls do when they congregate, talking about Barbie.
But us guys, when we talk, we talk turkey.
Joey motioned toward Spencer’s face, where he’d let hair take over the bottom half of his cheeks and chin. Joey called it a “Lincoln beard” and, because it was hilarious, we all died laughing.
The girls, I was sure, were knitting. They were doing each other’s nails and going wide-eyed when one in the group mentioned ‘N Sync.
Eventually, everybody left for the night, and I found a sheet of yellow loose-leaf lying on the coffee table. The ladies must have forgotten to take it with them.
“’Thanksmas’ Family Dinner,’” it was titled, complete with a page-long invite list. Underneath, there were categories: “Food. Desserts. Drinks. Activities.”
That’s right … “Activities.”
Some of the items went so far as to assign individual designations. Mal will bring bacon-wrapped water chestnuts. Emily: red-velvet cake. Ryan’s in charge of preparing one small turkey.
Apparently, on Dec. 11, 2011, the boys and I will be partaking in a Secret Santa exchange. We’ll decorate cookies and gingerbread houses. We’ll make Christmas sweaters.
And as if that’s not enough, we’ll take turns at the dinner table, each and every one of us, reciting what we’re thankful for since last holiday.
My friends and I are obviously too cool for these plans. They’re outrageous. I don’t decorate gingerbread houses; I eat them for breakfast. Cody burns Christmas sweaters, to promote an anti-establishment campaign that I can really get behind. And Ryan’s thankful for living in a free country, where he can own firearms and never, ever share his feelings if he doesn’t want to.
But none of us will complain.
I don’t remember what happened last December 11, and I’m sure my friends don’t, either. It was a day, maybe it was chilly. Maybe I did some Christmas shopping or treated myself to one of those $5 frozen-caramel drinks at Starbucks.
But next year, I won’t need to guess. I’ll know exactly where I was. And if the girls have anything to say about it, I’m sure that there’ll be pictures to prove it.
