The creepy babies are back.
I've missed 'em.
I've missed 'em.
Every year I sit in wonder over who came up with this jacked up wreath. I think her name might have been Geraldine. Geri, for short. She smokes Slims. She thinks about God in that far-off sort of way. She mostly refers to him as "The Good Lord Above". She favors elastic waistband slacks and sweatshirts which she's embroidered with kittens and bunnies, because who wouldn't think kittens are cute? She plays pinochle with the girls and works at a grocery store that still has the cash registers with the buttons that you push. Her boyfriend's name is Stan, but don't tell her I told you, because she always says, "I'm too old for a boyfriend! He's just Stan. He helps me fix things and eats my left-overs." (Whatever, Geri.)
I've considered the possibility that Geri believed she was creating something truly beautiful with this wreath, that she might have thought the wonky-eyed cherubs were the perfect, charming touch. Heck no. Geri knew that they were strange and wrong. She snickered to herself while the other ladies at the Center wrapped red yarn around Styrofoam then glued candy canes and fake poinsettia leaves around the edge. She knew no one would "get" the babies, though Margie and Joan would at least have the good sense to pretend to like them. Stan, on the other hand, he would squint his eyes real tight the first time he looked at it and walk away without a word. She knew exactly what his silence would mean.
But she stuck them on there anyway because they made her happy and because why the heck not? (Only she probably didn't say heck.)
I'm hoping she had a feeling that one day they'd fall into the hands of someone who shared a part of her silly heart and who would come to believe that Christmas would never feel quite right again without those freak babies.
For more of my Christmas hoopla, click here.