No No No to Ho Ho Ho?

I'm all for political correctness, but this is taking it too far. Some department stores are now having their Rent-a-Santas say "Ha Ha Ha" instead of "Ho Ho Ho." Why, you ask? Because the word "Ho" now has certain derrogatory connotations. How ridiculous. Do we really think Santa is calling our children an urban euphamism for prostitutes? "Ho Ho Ho" is merry in nature, reminiscent of Santa in Clement C. Moore's classic holiday poem "The Night Before Christmas." It positively evokes Santa laughing so hard that his belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. "Ha Ha Ha," on the other hand, sounds like someone is laughing at you. Witness Nelson Muntz from "The Simpsons," with his trademark "Ha Ha" (and, in one Christmas episode, when laughing at Ned Flanders, "Ha Ha - you're sad at Christmas.") Is Santa laughing at you? Could it be because you were foolish enough to stand outside of Kohl's to be first in line when they opened at 4 am the day after Thanksgiving to buy the new Tickle Me Elmo, only to discover that it was pulled from the shelves because it sounds like it's saying something obscene (but apparently not as obscene as the word Ho, which is why Santa can't use it anymore)?



That Nelson cracks me up.

Kinda Bumming Today

Forgive me if I'm not my usual cheery, irreverant self today, but I just learned that one of my neighbors died this week. It was sudden - no one had seen her all of last weekend, and then her daughter found her in her apartment on Monday. It makes me realize how you never know what will happen. I just saw her last week. She was in her car driving out of our apartment complex as I was walking in. We waved to each other. I didn't know it at the time, but it was the last time I would see her.

Usually I try not to get too chummy with my neighbors, in case they turn out to be kind of weird, or want to start coming over to visit all the time. I know, it's sort of anti-social of me, but I do like to keep to myself a lot of the time. But this lady was one of the few neighbors that I am friendly with. She was eldery, a widow who lived alone, although her children and grandchildren lived nearby. But she was fiercely independent. She once told me that, until very recently, she used to keep a loaded gun in her apartment and so she never locked her door at night ("If anyone got in, they'd never get out."). Her late husband was a police officer, so I guess she learned how to handle a gun from him. But that's the kind of spunky woman she was. And passing away suddenly in your own home beats dying in a nursing home, sick and feeble, sometimes for years, hands down.

It's especially sad for her family that she died around Christmastime. I lost my father ten years ago this month, just two weeks before Christmas, so I know how it can affect one's holidays for the rest of one's life. I still think about my father more at Christmas. But in a strange way, I derive a little comfort from the fact that he passed away around Christmas. When I go to church every year on the anniversary of his death to light a candle in his memory, I am comforted by the pointsettias and the Christmas decorations that adorn the church. And if I'm lucky, I'm treated to a rehearsal of the organist or the choir practicing Christmas music. In fact, on the first anniversary of his death, in a beautiful cathedral on the Upper East Side in New York City (near where I worked at the time), the organist started practicing while I was there. I was crying a little bit, and the first song that the organist played was my favorite Christmas carol, "O Come, O Come Emmanuel." It's pretty, yet kind of mournful, medieval and monastic in sound. I felt that it wasn't a coincidence -- that it was a gift to me that day, a sign that my father knew I was there, and that he was at peace. Sounds crazy, I know, but it made me feel better to think that. And maybe in time my neighbor's family will find the same comfort that I do during the holiday season.

Why Am I Such a Misfit?

Christmastime is here again. Time to put up the tree, hang the mistletoe, and take out those DVDs of the classic holiday television specials you enjoyed as a child. I'm talking about chestnuts like How the Grinch Stole Christmas, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and, of course, anything by Rankin Bass. So last night I waxed nostalgic and watched my DVD of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And last night, like every year, a thought occurred to me, as I'm sure it's occurred to everyone who's seen the program - a nagging question that, for the past forty-plus years that this program has been in existence, has never been fully explored nor satisfactorily answered: What exactly is wrong with the Misfit Doll?

You all know the Misfit Toys: Charlie in the Box, a cowboy on an ostrich, a train with square wheels. Sure, it's obvious what their problems are. But what's wrong with the little doll? She looks perfectly normal in her red gingham dress and pigtails. So why is she a misfit, banished to a life in limbo on the Island of Misfit Toys? I posed this question to a co-worker once, and he replied that she's a misfit because she cries a lot. I countered that she cries a lot because she's a misfit. Is this a vicious cycle? Watching it again last night, however, I realized that she only cried once, on Christmas Eve, when the fog became so thick that it looked like Santa wouldn't make it to the Island of Misfit Toys to pick them all up and bring them to new homes. Who wouldn't cry at this massive disappointment?

But maybe my co-worker had a point. An article on tvparty.com suggests that the Misfit Doll's problems could, perhaps, be more psychological in nature. Personally, I think she was a Misfit because she had red hair! As a redhead myself, I know how she would be ostracized - called names like Carrot Top, Freckle Face, or Pippi Longstocking. But if she's a misfit because she has red hair, then dammit, so am I! I think there's a lesson to be learned from the Misfit Doll, and indeed, from all of the Misfit Toys: Be Yourself. To remind myself of this valuable lesson, I've got the Misfit Doll action figure (part of a two-pack with Rudolph) gracing my computer table year-round as a reminder to embrace my individuality. I'm a Misfit and proud of it.

Just don't get me started about my theory that Hermie's desire to be a dentist is actually a veiled reference to coming out of the closet.