Article: "Best of both Worlds"

Best of both worlds?

Here's an article from Atlanta. Does this sound like "the best of both worlds" for anyone?

Dawn

Being a Grinch over decorations

(FIRST PERSON)

By JOHN KESSLER
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Published on: 12/16/07

http://www.ajc.com/holiday/content/holidayguide/decorating/stories/2007/12/14/poopedsanta_1216.html

When you enter an interfaith marriage, you know you may encounter some differences around holiday customs.

But if you are not the Christian in the relationship, nothing can prepare you for Christmas decorations.

"John, can you bring the box up from the basement?" are the words that kick off decorating season in our household, and they always come on the last Friday in November.

"The box" is a plastic tub, heavy and large enough to suggest it contains the bound and gagged body of St. Nick himself. In fact it holds enough tchotchkes to blanket our house in holiday cheer. Elves, reindeer, garlands, baubles, puppies in red stocking caps.

We have multiple cr che scenes — so many in fact that the figurines eventually migrate from one manger to the next. After a couple of weeks, one table may display three baby Jesuses and a lone donkey, suggesting a disreputable day care facility.

Another will have so many and varied creatures in military formation that it conjures Orwell's "Animal Farm."

"Why do we have so much stuff?" I plead, as I trip over the gilded chicken-wire sleigh stuffed with dusty presents that sits by our front door for, seemingly, just that purpose.

"You don't like Christmas decorations?" my wife asks.

"NO!" I think.

"Of course I do," I say. "But there's just so much."

Jingle bells hang from our doors. All our doors. One cannot pass from room to room without being reminded of the season's tidings.

But of all the decorations, the one that drives me straight to Grinch Mountain is the figurine I call Pooped Santa.

Imagine, if you will, a brightly painted porcelain Santa splayed over a chair, puffing his pipe by the fire, his plump feet naked and resting in a bucket. Hovering by his side: a solicitous elf with a pitcher poised over the bucket.

Walk up to this thing, clap your hands and — Merry Christmas! — water starts pouring through the pitcher onto Santa's feet to the strains of "Jingle Bells." After 30 seconds of such merriment, the water drains back into its reservoir and the music stops.

The problem is, any loud or moderately loud noise sets it off. If a door slams or our dog barks it starts. Our dog barks, on average, 40 times per evening.

This year, as the battery ran down, the musical component of the show went silent. So all we heard was the sound of water splashing over Santa's feet. I can't tell you how many times I've thought it was a toilet running, or perhaps the dog was trying to tell us she really, really needed to go out.

Every year, as I tiptoe past Santa, I make the same lame Jewish-spouse joke — i.e., that I'm going to decorate the house for Hanukkah with garlands of potato pancakes, papier mâché menorahs and figurines of Maccabees huddling in a cave over an oil lamp. It never gets a laugh.

Hanukkah has become a pretty tame affair in our house. The kids all get new pajamas on the first night because the big presents will come on Dec. 25. I make potato pancakes. We light the candles.

So that is how our interfaith marriage plays out for the holidays. My wife brings good tidings and joy to the holiday season. I offer flannel and food. Despite Pooped Santa and his posse, I suppose it's the best of both worlds.