Tonight my absolute fave Christmas special, “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” came on TV. My least favorite, because you were wondering, is Frosty. It’s freakin’ SAD people! He melts. And he keeps saying “Happy Birthday!” Which is the wrong salutation unless you’re addressing Jesus. Just thinking about it brings back ewwy childhood memories of watching it like a train wreck, unable to turn away. Maybe *this* year he won’t melt. Maybe *this* year the cute little blond girl (who looks like me!) won’t cry into her mittens. It’s like watching a bad horror movie. “FROSTY! No! Don’t go into the greenhouse!”
Sigh. Now I’m sad. I was all set to muse about the magic of NYC at Christmas. How we, like Charlie Brown wanted so badly, are forced to minimize decoration simply because we can’t fit much more than the basics. If we even get a tree, it’s usually just so we can throw a tree-trimming party and drink. Spiked egg nog. Mmmm.
Last week I brought out my own not-such-a-bad little tree. It’s just enough to make me smile when I come home (I *did* have presents under it, but some of you readers are recipients, so no peeking). I put on seasonal tunes, steep some “Sugar Cookie” tea and do the yay-I-don’t-live-in-a-mall-culture happy dance.
Now if only I could solve for a liquid Frosty… hmmm, maybe I’ll just ask Santa to tell to the TV execs to take Frosty off the air. But does no mall mean… no Santa?!?!