You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch   

By Amy Lynn Huff

 

 

             Do you want to know why I never like Christmas caroling?  I’ll tell you why! It’s too damn cold, for one thing.  Whoever got the stupid idea that it’d be fun to wander around the dark, in the middle of December, singing of all things, was seriously mistaken.  It’s a freakin’ health hazard.  Last year I told my mom that I wasn’t going because the weatherman forecasted two feet of snow that night.  Two feet!  My little brother Tommy would be half covered in two feet of snow.  Mom just busted out in “Walkin’ in a Winter Wonderland” gave me “Hotter than Hell” hand warmers.  If those hand warmers were hotter than hell, I hope Hitler packed a parka on his way out.  Besides, who still carols with their parents once they're in high school?  I don’t know any who carols in the first place and I am sure my doing so won’t start a new trend worth following.

I just don’t understand why every Christmas, my family makes the rounds to not only to our block, but to one block in every direction.  Yes, that’s right.  There’s the block north of us that recently completed it’s collection of Yule Tide decorations from each of the 50 states. They had Channel Seven News come out and their poor son, Marcus, had to stand with his parents and admit he lived there.  He hasn’t been the same since.  I know how he feels.  Four years ago, my parents enlisted us in the “Carol for A Cause Carolathon” raising money for music programs in the public schools.  We sang for 18 hours straight!  After we won, the interviewer from the news asked me why I did it and I told him it was because my parents wouldn’t let me stay home alone for that long and I would rather be dead than spend that much time with my Aunt Bonnie.  I was grounded for 2 weeks.

Next, we go to the eastern block, which is full of elderly people, so Dad makes us take the volume up a notch.  You have never heard “The Twelve Days of Christmas” until you’ve heard my family howl it in its entirety loud enough to wake the dead.   On the block south of ours, we skip two houses because they’re Jewish (God bless the Jews!) and the Neil’s always offer us hot chocolate with peppermint candy canes (God bless the Neil’s, too!).  And finally, there is the Western block.  This one is by far the worst.  Not only do my eyes freeze open by this point from a mix of the artic weather and the overuse (or as I like to say, misuse) of white Christmas lights, but somehow we always get caught up talking to the Corrie’s.

Now, I know we’ve known the Corrie’s forever, but do I really have to stand there and watch my parents talk about Christmas bonuses at the plant or how thankful they are that the tulip bulbs got in the ground before the first freeze?   I don’t think so! I don’t care about your stupid tulips, Mom! 

Last year when we Waldon’s dropped by the Corrie’s for our annual wassailing, I noticed Andrew Larken’s Chevy Blazer parked outside the Corrie’s brown and tan split level house.  My nearly frozen heart fluttered, and for once, I felt blood move though my veins I slid down the West block.  I knew it was Andrew’s because it was red and the right side of the bumper was attached to the car with duct tape.  I could see the number 7, his basketball number that had been written on with a Sharpie. 

As we approached the Corrie’s front door, I slid my mittened hands up the sleeves of my navy, down-filled parka.  Idiot, I thought to myself.  Why the hell didn’t I bring a hair brush and some lipstick or even a little powder to touch up?  If Mom just wouldn’t have unplugged my curling iron rushed me out the door… The door opened and just as I was going to strategically place myself for Andrew best viewing, Dad pushed me into the center of the group, right under the glaring porch light.  Thanks to good old Dad, I just knew everyone was examining the zit forming on the left side of my nose.  We sang, ‘Deck the Halls’ and ‘We Wish You a Christmas’.  You see, the really stupid part about our caroling is that we have motions to accompany the lyrics.  No, not just motions; full blown choreography.  During the “Figgy Pudding” verse I tried desperately to make my eating motions as hidden as possible. 

When our performance finally finished, they applauded and the adults all pretended to have a really good time talking about life.  I just stood there smiling like a buffoon until my older sister Rachel started talking to Kyle.  Then, Andrew somehow miraculously started talking to me.  All I could do was smile, nod, and give one word answers.  He talked about his upcoming game next weekend and said Maybe I’ll see you afterward.  OH MY GOD!!!!!  It was me and it was Andrew and it was a game next weekend and a maybe I’ll see you afterward.  There was CONNECTION!  I was shining, on cloud nine.  Maybe he hadn’t seen the zit or the stupid Figgy Pudding dance.  This whole thing with Andrew was way too cool to be true.

Our families said good bye and we all shuffled down the walk that led to the street.  I was trying to imagine what Andrew was thinking about me. If he only knew the things I was already thinking about…  A prom dress, a promise of true love before he went to college, he could propose on Christmas because it was near the time we met, we would name our first son Andrew but all him Andy…

Dad came up behind me and slapped me on the back saying Alright, Tiger!  Only three more left!  Just as I was about to give him that glare to tell him don’t you EVER call me Tiger in public!, his little pat on the back made me slip and bust it on the ice.  I fell with the force of a thousand buffalos.  That swift movement of my Dad’s hand landed me smack on my rear creating the loudest thud ever heard in Commerce Township.  Santa may have well fallen straight down the chimney.  I can’t believe my dad did that to me- in front of Andrew Larken, of all people!  Didn’t Dad know how important Andrew was in my life?  Didn’t he realize that because he had to slap my back, that Andrew and Kyle would call me clumsy Chloe behind my back for the next 6 months? 

Needless to say, though there was me and there was Andrew, and the game next weekend, I never saw him afterward.  Thanks to my idiot family and its stupid caroling, I lost the perfect opportunity to make Andrew Larken fall in love with me!  Christmas caroling sucks.  If my parents make me go this year, I’m ditching out at the east block and heading back home or maybe over to Mandy’s.  I’d rather be warm, eating mac and cheese, and watching reruns of “Bewitched” than to ever be subjected to that type of torture again.