aahh, nothing says christmas like coming home smelling like you smoked a pack a marlboros. all your new toys and clothes would be covered with the stench so potent you secretly hoped they left a reciept in the box so you could return it.
not because you didn't like it. but so you could get one without a nicorette patch attached to it.
my childhood christmas eves were filled with smoke rings blown from the lips of my parents, grandparents and assorted visitors. how i picked up the filthy habit myself in my teens, who knows? (actually, i do know but that's another story.)
a fake, white christmas trees packed with plastic ornaments and lights of every color of the rainbow. a plastic village of 60's brady-bunch homes arranged by my pop-pop in some new urban experiment under the tree. a plastic doll carriage ornament that i was told was from my first christmas but i was never allowed to touch. sure you could let me play in a busy street but break a 99 cent ornament and you break out into a cold sweat.
toys and gifts were stacked under the brady bunch homes. each year your picture was taken while sitting with your brother on top of the life-sized, statue of a deer lying down in the living room. the one whose hoof was broken and taped back into place with athletic tape, each year the camera caught the deer's permanent injury along with bad hair, braces and clothing styles of wonderfully clueless children of the 80's.
polaroids and cigarettes butts. that's what christmas means to me.
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