Audrey Piehl
Opinions Editor
Getting the Christmas Tree:
PERCEPTION: You arrive at a Christmas tree farm in the rustic but cozy Connecticut woodland. A merry lumberjack-esque man with rosy cheeks greets you and your family, all of whom are sipping apple cider and glowing with cheer. Everyone agrees on a beautiful, 8 ft. Austrian Pine (imported, of course) that travels smoothly back to your benevolent abode. It is erected proudly in the living room and is quickly adorned with vintage Coca-cola ornaments and environmentally-friendly lights, the latter’s profits to be donated to save seal pups (awww!). As gifts quickly populate the bottom of the tree, the anticipation and aroma of the holidays steadily grows.
REALITY: You arrive at Stew Leonards, where an obstructive tent rimmed with wreaths is plopped in the middle of a Christmas tree graveyard. After a gruelling “Jingle Bell Rock” themed search for a parking spot, your family marches towards the seemingly hundreds of trees to choose from; but, of course, no one can agree on the same specimen. It’s always too short, or too tall, or not “green” enough, or too skinny, or sometimes there isn’t a reason at all, and a disgruntled look is all it takes to eliminate the next candidate. In the end, the bored teenage employee assisting your merry journey strongly recommends a typical Douglas Fir. Everyone succumbs, mostly due to the dropping temperatures, but now you have to tie the tree to the roof of the car in a holiday straightjacket of sorts. The drive home is unbelievably tense as every bump in the road could signify the end to a “beloved” Christmas tradition (and the life of the driver behind you). Thankfully, the guest of honor arrives safe and sound. After many frustrated sighs and heavy lifting, the tree is erected in an awkward corner, which makes it almost impossible to hang tacky ornaments on the back. Pine needles blanket the floor, assuring you that the house will smell like a car-freshener for the next three months.
Shopping:
PERCEPTION:
You glide down 5th Avenue with a beaming smile and the determination to buy original and thoughtful holiday gifts. Giant, sparkling ornaments and plastic tinsel adorn the many store windows you pass, their expensive merchandise framed by reindeer and fake flurries. You even spot good St. Nick himself, a true Edmund Gwenn doppelganger providing consultation to surprisingly well-behaved and decisive children. You quickly score several holidays deals, including a half-price iPad, Michael Kors sunglasses, a Bergdorf Goodman dress, and some Tiffany earrings. You even had some spare money to splurge on your closest friends. In fact, you end up under budget, your shopping bags aren’t too cumbersome, and there’s just enough daylight left to go ice-skating in Central Park.
REALITY:
There are two routes for holiday shopping: online and offline. The former is the traditional and generally more irritating way. If you like suffocating on cologne in Hollister, fighting off a tattooed biker for the last Bridgestone speaker, and listening to a toddler’s shrill scream after they realize Santa’s stomach is fake, then grab the nearest credit card and prepare for some nasty Stamford traffic. If that doesn’t sound too appealing, choose the lesser of two evils and go internet shopping. This is where hometown service and personal retail goes to die, but it’s also convenient, so there’s your benefit. But no matter which road you decide to travel down, you are still going to meet one, major obstacle: what the hell do you buy for these people? Your dad gets everything for himself, your mom will probably find someway to take offense at whatever you get her, your siblings’ tastes are constantly changing, and if you get one friend something, you have to get everyone something. You might as well say goodbye to those college savings.
Snow:
PERCEPTION:
Think of the end of It’s a Wonderful Life (if you haven’t seen that movie, get to the public library and prepare for some feel-good-classic-Hollywood-wonder.) Jimmy Stewart (as the compassionate George Bailey) is running frantically through snow that, in impeccable black and white, appears neither cold nor wet. It falls picturesquely around Jimmy as he launches flurries into the air with lanky legs scrambling to get back home. Potterville is no more, the bells are going to ring for a kind angel, and the final shot will be of a classic home embellished with pristine snow. Insert some sledding and a cup of cocoa, and you have an ideal, “Technicolor” Northeast snow.
REALITY:
The first snow manifests in stages. It begins with dainty flurries, often signalled by shrieks of joy in a classroom. Then the thick, stereotypical snowflakes appear, like mutant dandruff God is shaking out of his heavenly locks. But then, as the sky begins to darken and the sun disappears, Armageddon occurs. The “light snow” turns into a full-on blizzard, the flakes morphing into deadly sheets of slush and ice. Branches creak under the weight, slabs cascade off your roof, and a few gasps of horror escape your lips as the lights begin to flicker. Trucks rumble down the street like orange wooly mammoths, pushing the snow against your driveway and contaminating nature’s blanket with grimy salt. The next morning, you are tugged out of bed by your parents who are demanding that you shovel the terrorized driveway in your dorky snow pants. You oblige, despite it being a snow-day that will inevitably push back the last day of school, and you are welcomed by polluted mounds of crusty sludge and impending frostbite. White Christmas, indeed.
