My Top Ten Holiday Treats.

This Christmas season couldn't have happened at a better time.

I hadn't realized how profoundly burned out on politics I am right now. Plus, you know, Romney has gone away. He's probably lounging on a tropical beach staining his teeth with so much Strawberry Crush, he could play the lead in the new ABC sitcom, CEO Vampire.

And not only has Mitt git, but so have his Republican nemeses; no more Perry or Bachmann or Cain. The airwaves are no longer dripping in Santorum. 

If you'd like to know exactly how much I'd like to discuss politics, please read the following paragraph. Some readers may consider the subject matter disturbing and may choose to skip it. Bear in mind, it is intended solely for immature audiences. While it may sicken you, if you aren't disgusted, then wow, are you messed up.

I would rather discuss politics today than nibble savory opiated droplets of perspiration from the murky confines of Rush Limbaugh's inner thigh meat.

I knew you'd read it. Anyway, this time of year is meant for basking in the warm bubble bath of the holidays. Doggone it, I love this time of year, don't you?

It's a season of smells. I think that's what conjures such strong emotion—there's a six-week window of aromas that doesn't exist the rest of the year. Only then do vapors of peppermint hot chocolate meld with cinnamon and Douglas Fir to instantly remind you of your great aunt's house in Tacoma.

And, holy sweet mother, Yuletide is a season of tastes. Like I say when I walk into my daughters' rooms, "There's shit everywhere." Please reply with  your top ten or five or one or whatever. I know I'm just scratching the sweet, buttery surface.

Here are my top ten holiday treats:

10) Little oranges—Today, I've got three Satsumas at my eleven o'clock and a container of homemade truffles at my five o'clock. It's going to be a battle.

9) Pumpkin pie—Don't so quickly forget our friend from two weeks ago who gave his life for breakfast.

8) Almond Roca—I love it so much, the stuff in my cat's litter box looks tempting.

7) Russian tea cookies—Funny story, I've never had them with Russian tea.

6) Hickory Farms—A nice little stack of cheese and summer sausage on a cracker, combined with your favorite hoppy beverage can turn The Today Sponge Bowl into the championship game.

5) Chocolate mint Frangos—One time back in college, I ate nearly an entire box. That's all you need to know.

4) Divinity—My mom made it. I never liked it very much, but remembering her makes me love it.

3) Frosted sugar cookies—Preferably shaped like a tree and covered with red or green frosting (or both) and sprinkles. Oh, Christmas tree.

2) Irish Whiskey—A holiday tradition begun decades ago by none other than my papa, Lionel Haywood. Deliciousness.

1) Fudge.

Where's the party?

I think I must be missing something.

Maybe it's my advancing age. Maybe I'm one of  those outlying planets, like Uranus or Pluto, which orbits so far from the sun that it takes fifteen years to find out what happened last Thursday.

I suppose I'm a little sensitive because I work in fashion advertising, and in order to rake in the green, we must peddle the black, in the form of little black holiday dresses. Or medium black or plus size black. Whatever your size, you'll step out in style this season.

Okay, that was weird and annoying. Sorry.

My employer is also fervently pushing men's tuxedos because, apparently, we're now kicking off the biggest party season of the year, bigger than a slate of all-new Kardashian episodes. That's fantastic; I love parties. I'm a "my-red-plastic-cup-runneth-over," party aficionado.

The thing is, I currently don't, nor have I ever, worn a tux to anything but weddings and proms, and it's been so long that none were black. Where are all these black tie galas? Who are these people? Am I merely an insignificant, jean-and t-shirt clad island in a sea of dashing partygoers filled with Carringtons, Ewings and Bond, James Bond?

Actually, I couldn't care less about dressing up that fancily for an evening of patent leather follies. I'm a low maintenance reveler, whose party modus operandi has evolved slightly, yet not changed all that much.

Like most of us, the only parties I attended as a school-aged kid were birthday affairs where all activities were scheduled to culminate with the grand cake and present-opening ritual. After indulging in a few games or maybe eating some bad pizza, it was time for the birthday boy to get his.

I prided myself on consistently hugging the guest of honor to grow an inch. Pinches are mean and can bruise. Plus, I used to get spanked for pinching.

High school parties differed widely from the structured, adult-sanctioned kiddie bashes. No agenda was necessary when forty people gathered by a river, a keg of Rainier in the bed of some dude named Lonnie's Mazda pickup. The only certainty was a makeout session between two random folks who would deny the entire episode at school on Monday.

I prided myself on consistently hugging Lonnie, or whomever facilitated the event. Chipping in a couple of bucks for the keg seemed so shallow and impersonal.

I believe the word "college" is Latin for "It's noon somewhere." The party concept rose to art form status during those four (or five, in my case) years of higher achievement. We wore togas, asked girls their majors at least seven hundred times and learned to drink beer out of receptacles normally reserved for lifting and separating.

I prided myself on consistently hugging the person at the party who looked the saddest. Despite my good intentions, let's just say the emotion no longer betrayed sadness following my embrace.

As an adult finally free of academic constraints, the parties I attended still enjoyed a collegiate atmosphere, yet with an an added air of sophistication. After all, malt liquor had replaced beer as the beverage of choice. Frequently, the guests would stuff themselves into the kitchen to maintain close proximity to the liquid refreshments, leaving the main room virtually vacant, other than really tired people who lay face down on the living room futon.

At these homey events, I prided myself on consistently walking down the dark hallway, opening the door, turning on the light and hugging whichever couple had chosen the coat-piled bed as a good place to vigorously nap.

We don't even call them parties anymore. We're all pushing fifty and they're not referred to as "get-togethers" or "barbecues," certainly not formal soirees where cumberbuns and bow ties, silk pashminas and strappy heels spackle the room. It's usually a small group of friends, some wine and nice chairs with lumbar support.

I pride myself on hugging everyone in attendance. And most of these people finally know me so well that, by golly, they usually hug me back.

Take a moment, America. Then light that thing.

Happy birthday, America.

Now get me a switch from that old maple behind the tool shed and drape yourself over Papa's knee for two-hundred-and-thirty-five birthday spankins. And a pinch to grow an inch.

Wow, we're one old country, aren't we? I'm pretty sure we've finally been around longer than M*A*S*H was.

All the wars, all the economic catastrophes, all the heart-seizing moments staring into the icy abyss of annihilation.

But enough about the Kardashians.

As we approach the Fourth of July, how many of us will actually ponder the true spirit of the holiday? Who among us will reflect upon the sacrifices performed by so many to win and maintain our freedom for nearly two-and-a-half centuries?

I'm really going to try this time. I'm going to give my full effort to not plunging my ever-sagging, soft bodily tissue into twenty-four-hour, Pabst-fueled orgy of piccolo pete pyromania. And since the "p" words are flowing, I'll add "penis" to the mix, since most of this day's ordnance experts are also owners of that dangling participle between our legs.

What do you say guys? How about we just light a couple of bottle rockets, pound down some strawberry shortcake and call it a day before something of which we're extremely fond gets blown off, placed in a plastic bag and duct taped to our stomach for that jostling airlift to Harborview?

Oh, yeah, and maybe we can spend thirty seconds or so thinking about the true significance of July 4.

Not that we're any better with other holidays. Do many of us spend oodles of time contemplating the true meaning of Christ's birth on December 25, 0000? Hopefully, after we've ripped the wrapping off our Magic Bullets and bodyscapers, we take some time to appreciate JC's humble beginnings.

It is nice to know that, although our Lord was born in a rustic setting at best, at least Joe and Mary could take advantage of that full week between the Messiah's birthday and New Year's Day, hopefully having received enough gold to convert that sowing room into a nursery.

Joseph would also have a chance to return that foul-smelling myrrh to the MAC counter at Neiman's before walking into the office on January 2 with some light-hearted birthing stories.

"I tried to comfort her and help her breathe," Joseph would say, while sipping his morning java, "but she pushed me away, yelling 'You did this to me!' All I could do was turn to Wise Man Frankie and whisper, 'I don't think so, Babe.'"

On Saint Patrick's Day, most don't observe the death of a man who introduced Christianity to Ireland. Nope, they're more concerned with what they've regurgitated on the morning of March 18, and whether the green color is from the beer or an alarming imbalance of their body's flora and fauna.

Easter rolls around, and it's more about how many Whoppers and Reese's Pieces we can scarf down by ten in the morning than it is about celebrating the day Jesus came back to life because of a freakishly human-sized bunny.

So, again, here's my challenge to you, to me, to all who consider themselves able to wade through the commercial muck of modern holidays: On the next big day, take five minutes.

All I ask is five.

My birthday is August 28.

How the cable Grinch stole Christmas

I like the word "special." I like it even more when it's used as a noun, as in "Christmas Special." And since we're now fully absorbed into the 2009 holiday free-for-all, I've been doing a little reflecting about how the seasonal television specials have evolved over the years.

Like most of us in our forties and beyond, I was raised watching TV on the floor. It wasn't because our family room lacked furniture; on the contrary, the couch often sat unoccupied. No, the reason I flopped down onto the shag carpet was to position myself as closely as possible to the television dial. No remote, you see. So, back during TV's golden age (the 1970s), immediately after Thanksgiving, every night witnessed an encampment in front of the idiot box, with the main fare offered up by the big three networks: NBC, ABC and CBS.

I classified the holiday shows into three tiers:
Tier 1: Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer, A Charlie Brown Christmas and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. These programs required rescheduling of any other events which may have caused conflicts.
Tier 2: Frosty the Snowman and Santa Claus is Coming to Town. This pair is also very solid, but if you had a dessert potluck to attend, you may choose to opt out.
Tier 3: All of the variety shows offered up by celebrities of yesteryear, such as Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Andy Williams, John Denver or the Osmonds. These usually had more cheese than the log with the crackers on the kitchen counter, and I only watched them in a pinch.

Since my kids really don't observe my old TV traditions, I decided to research what the networks currently broadcast, and there is so much more goodness to be had. TV is just wonderful these days, and these gems only prove the point. Keep in mind, these are actual shows:
-Victoria's Secret Holiday Fashion Show—hmm, seems like it's too cold right now, but, whatever.
-Rudolph and Frosty's Christmas in July—two words: no way.
-A Boyfriend for Christmas—no comment.
-Holiday in Handcuffs—believe it or not, this is on the Disney Family Channel. Hopefully, it's not based on some kind of Manson family reunion.
-Comfort and Joy—sounds more like an adult diaper ad than a feature-length special.

I guess that's a representative sample. Please...enjoy.