The war on Christmas starts at home

I hadn’t popped the top button on my pants for more than five minutes Thursday afternoon when The Wife was already onto Christmas.

“When are you putting up the Christmas lights?” “Should we get our tree early this year?” “I wanted to get new stockings this year from Crate & Barrel, and look it’s already the end of November.”

All I could do was burp, nearly gagging on the bits of cranberry jelly and stuffing making their way to daylight. Already groggy, the Butterball’s tryptophan was working its way into my bloodstream like heroin, and there she was, merrily peppering me with premature Yuletide cheer.

She was relentless, and I had to think fast before she got me to commit my energies to something I didn’t want to do while under the influence of velvety pumpkin pie filling.

“We’re not celebrating Christmas this year,” I said.

Granted, I could’ve started off a bit smoother, but it was too late. I had to go with it.

“I work for a newspaper, dear, and as an unbiased member of the media I cannot afford to offend my Muslim, Jehovah’s Witness or Jewish neighbors with all this talk of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and the blatant force-feeding of our beliefs on others.”

Yeah. I had recovered like a champ, gushing with strong, unchallengeable points. I could see she was already on the ropes.

“But …” she said.

“But what, honey?” I parried. “What kind of Christmas would it be if we made the holidays uncomfortable for someone else? I simply will not be a party to it.”

No public displays of Christianity (like that’s ever happened). No garish lighting hanging from the eaves of our home (I would have had to borrow a ladder and climb that ladder). No 10-foot tall inflatable Nativity scenes with a life-size Baby Jesus (do you know how much electricity those inflatables use?).

This was really going well, so I threw The Wife a bone.

“We’ll go to Lowe’s this weekend. I hear they’re selling ‘family trees.’ They’re supposed to be Christmas-like in every way but name. That’s good, wholesome, non-offensive holiday cheer.

“You don’t want our friends and loved ones thinking we’re just a bunch of insensitive jerks, do you?”

No answer, as I expected. I might even have detected an upturned eyebrow. But I was brimming with confidence and numbed by a good pound of turkey lodged in the inner workings of my gastrointestinal tract, so I soldiered on, upping the ante.

“And we really need to reconsider our blind allegiance to Santa Claus. What are we really teaching our daughter when Jolly Ol’ St. Nick is nothing but an archetype of institutionalized discrimination?”

This was getting good. I had a full head of steam at this point, like a verbal John Coltrane tearing up the tenor sax. My words flowed like improvisational jazz, all grace and skill over a couple of chord changes.

“Being obese in this country today is practically a crime. There’s no one leading the charge for fatties’ rights, is there? Not when someone like Santa can so clearly offend my big-boned brothers and sisters, making a mockery of our struggle in this toned and fit society.”

I was on a roll — about six of them, with butter and honey — so clear thinking wasn’t coming easily.

“Santa Claus is offensive to so many in so many different ways, and I don’t want him in my home anymore.

“And it’s not just fat people,” I protested. “It’s senior citizens who still want to be taken seriously, people who enjoy wearing red when they know it doesn’t work, and those with reindeer and elf fetishes.”

The conversation had taken a sudden turn, and where exactly it went wrong I couldn’t say. The thing is, I just wanted The Wife to go away already so I could lean back in the recliner and go to sleep.

“Fine,” she said. “Take your stupid nap.”

At last, victory was mine. I could already feel the world getting fuzzy, the sweet bliss of a full-bellied siesta just moments away.

“Let your lazy Daddy get his rest, Riley,” I heard her say through a sleepy fog, one I couldn’t find a way out of to defend myself.

“He’ll have his work cut out for him this weekend when he’s putting up lights and picking out Christmas cards.”

Apparently the war on Christmas just can’t be won on the homefront.

This column originally published Nov. 24, 2007, and was republished Nov. 28, 2014, in the Imperial Valley Press. The republished version was slightly edited for length.