Spending the Holidays with People I Want to Punch in the Throat

by Jen Mann

  “You should come, too. Pleeeeeease,” I begged. “Don’t make me go alone.”

  “No way. I didn’t want to open the door, but you let the church lady see you. You should have been stealthy like me. Now you need to go out there and listen to them.”

  I yanked on my jacket and stomped out of the bedroom.

  I opened the front door, hoping they’d given up on me and had moved on to the next house. No such luck. I listened to the group sing three more songs: “Away in a Manger,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” and a jaunty rendition of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” At that point, I felt like I’d done my duty—I’d smiled and clapped and lied to them about how wonderful they sounded. I was trying to think of a way to graciously go back in my warm house and send them on their merry way. I hadn’t signed up for this. They had. I was ready to put my muumuu back on and cuddle up to watch The Walking Dead.

  They were just about to start singing another song when the porch lights went off abruptly. Then the pathetic Christmas lights on the bushes in front of the house were extinguished, plunging us into darkness. We stood there in stunned silence. I couldn’t believe the Hubs had turned out all the lights. Well, that’s not true—I could totally believe it, but I was still a little shocked. No. No, I wasn’t. I shrugged and was about to apologize when the front door swung open and the Hubs stepped out on the porch and announced, “Show’s over, folks. This is private property and you need to get a move on now.”

  And that’s why after that night, carolers always skip our house.

  I hate cookie exchanges more than you can know. I realize that as soon as I write this, I will never be invited to another cookie exchange, and I’m really okay with that. Let’s face it, I only go for the booze.

  These stupid gatherings are just another way for women to compete with one another over who can make the most adorable, delicious, ah-may-zing bullshit cookie on the planet. There are usually stupid awards like “Best Presentation,” “Most Festive,” “Tastiest Cookie,” and my favorite, “Best Packaging.” “Best Packaging”? It never even crossed my mind to “package” my cookies! I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Maybe I’m supposed to wrap them in parchment paper and tie them with baker’s twine or something stupid like that. The Christmas season is one of the busiest and most stressful times of the year, and I don’t have time to bake cookies that will be judged. I’m judged enough—I’d rather not go looking for it.

  When you read about the benefits of a cookie exchange, magazine editors love to throw around the idea that cookie exchanges are “time savers.” The assumption is that everyone is going to be baking several dozen cookies during the weeks leading up to Christmas anyway, so you might as well bake several dozen of all the same kind and then just trade them for someone else’s signature cookie. I don’t know about you, but the only time I ever bake several dozen cookies is when I’m invited to a cookie exchange, so really it’s the cookie exchange that creates a ridiculous amount of work.

  I also have an issue with the sanitary conditions the other partygoers’ cookies are prepared under. I am not a real dog lover. I also don’t care much for cats. Both dogs and cats tend to shed everywhere, and nothing makes me retch like finding any kind of hair in my cookie, but for some reason an animal one is even worse. Even the thought makes me shudder.

  You can always tell which animal lover baker is going to have a hair in her cookie. She’s the one who walks in the door already covered in cat hair. I make a mental note of her Tupperware and stay as far away as I can from her hairy Yuletide offerings.

  And then there is the fact that I don’t like cookie exchanges because I’m a picky cookie eater. To look at me you’d never guess this is true. I look like someone who has enjoyed a cookie…or six…in my time. But I feel very strongly about what cookies I choose to ingest. For instance, if a cookie doesn’t have chocolate as a main ingredient, then what is the point? Why even bother making a cookie without chocolate? I also don’t like coconut in my cookies, and there is something about a cookie exchange competition that makes the ladies bust out the coconut. I can’t stand sugar cookies. I think this overwhelming distaste goes back to my chocolate issue, but it also goes along with my desire for variety. There are almost always at least two or three different sugar cookie offerings. You can’t just cut those suckers into different seasonal shapes and call that original. Plus, they’re usually covered in some sort of festive sprinkles that I will find on my kitchen floor for days, because my kids eat like small farm animals. If I had my choice, though, I guess I’d choose a sugar cookie any day over something with almonds. Yuck.

  I hate the pressure of walking around the table laden with cookies and taking some of each. I don’t want a macaroon or someone’s dried-out hockey puck. In my opinion, biscotti aren’t cookies, they’re doorstops, and while gingerbread smells delicious, it doesn’t make the cut because it’s not chocolate. Honestly, it’s a waste for me to take any of these cookies. They will just get thrown out since no one in my house will eat them.

  I feel like everyone is watching me while I try not to turn my nose up at their offerings. There’s always that one pushy broad who wants you to take hers, even though you’ve passed it by. Twice. “Try the biscotti, Jen! I think you’ll love them!”

  I plaster on a fake smile and say, “I’m allergic to biscotti.”

  “I didn’t know that was possible.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, it’s a new allergy. I’m having one of those medical alert bracelets made. It’s a real problem. I can’t have biscotti, gingerbread, or sugar cookies. I also can’t have anything made in a home with cats. Were these chocolate mint brownies made by a cat owner?”

  The hostess stops dumping booze into the cider and speaks up. “I made those, Jen. We just have fish.”

  “Perfect! I’ll take double of those since I’m leaving the biscotti.”

  I despise the pre-planning that goes into attending a cookie exchange. The invitation informs me I must bring six dozen cookies to trade, two dozen cookies to share with the party-goers, and a container to take home my picks. So that’s three containers to hold a total of eight dozen cookies. I don’t have that kind of storage capacity. I am expected to have something pretty and jolly and preferably sparkly to display my two dozen shareables on so that they look beautiful on the hostess’ goody table. I don’t have that kind of shit. I usually arrange my offerings on a paper plate festooned with holly or some sort of winter wonderland shit that was left over from a school party. Then I need a large container (it would be nice if this was a holiday-inspired piece as well) for the six dozen cookies that I’m trading. And finally I need an empty third container to bring home the six dozen cookies I pick up. But before any of this, I must type up and print out (on cheery fucking paper, of course) copies of my recipe for everyone to take home and shove in a drawer. Son of a bitch! That is a lot of work, and I’m not sure I’m cut out for that.

  Instead, I’d rather go and drink the hostess’ spiked cider and eat a couple of chocolate cookies from the nosh table while I laugh with the girls. I’d like to bring my two dozen crappy (chocolate) cookies to share (or mostly eat myself, whatever) and leave with nothing except a full belly.

  When I do get invited to a cookie exchange, here is my go-to recipe. If you make this one, the only award you’ll win is the Martha Stewart Just Died a Little Inside Award.

  (I bet you never thought in a million years you’d find a recipe in my book, did you? Yeah, me neither, but my mom insists that I have at least one recipe in here if I want to call this a holiday book. So, here you go, Mom!)

  Festive Pretzel M&M Bites

  50 pretzels (preferably the Christmas-shaped ones, but I won’t judge you if they’re not, but they can’t be rod-shaped, as that will ruin this recipe)

  50 plain or peanut Christmas M&Ms (I prefer peanut)

  50 Hershey’s Kisses

  Preheat oven to 400°.

  Line up pretzels on a baking sheet with an unwrapped Her
shey’s Kiss in the middle of each pretzel.

  Place in the oven for 2 minutes.

  Remove and quickly press an M&M into the center of the softened Kiss.

  Let cool and serve on holly-festooned paper plate from the Dollar Store.

  It’s three weeks before Christmas and the malls are swarming with people trying to buy something fairly cheap—but not too crappy—for all of the inconsequential people in their lives.

  You can always find a horde of women fighting over a bin of clearance scarves they can give to their hairdressers, manicurists, kids’ teachers, and piano instructors. Lucky for me I don’t feel the pressure to give my hairdresser anything for the holidays. I just don’t book any appointments between late November and early January. It’s hell on my roots but easy on my wallet. I have so little experience with manicures that I had to ask my mom what she calls the lady who does her nails. My kids’ teachers always get a Target gift card from us, and we don’t have a piano teacher, because being forced to take piano lessons as a child has scarred me so deeply that even if my kids begged to take piano lessons I’m not sure I’d give the instructor a gift.

  Because I have so few people to buy for, I can hang out in the hat department and try on the hottest new styles in headwear while I eavesdrop on a couple of Overachieving Moms digging through the scarves. It’s like the scene from Lady and the Tramp where they follow the same piece of spaghetti to each other’s lips, only it’s separate ends of the same scarf they’re tugging on. And they’re not in love, so they’re ready to throw down with whoever is on the other end…until they realize it’s their very best frenemy.

  There’s a formula to these conversations. It’s always the same endless loop with a few changes depending upon the time of year.

  Kori: Hey, Whit! Great minds think alike, huh? What are you doing here?

  Whit: Oh! Kori, it’s you. Hi. I’m looking for something for my cleaning lady. This scarf would be perfect for Florence. What about you?

  Kori: When I dropped off Cavanaugh at school this morning, Mrs. Jenkins was complaining how cold it is on the playground, so I thought I’d get her a scarf.

  Jillian: Mrs. Jenkins, huh? I’ve hated her ever since she told Kinslee that cheerleading wasn’t a sport. I have eighty-two trophies in my home that prove otherwise! I’d probably let that bitch freeze.

  Kori: Jillian! You’re so bad!

  Whit: Hey, Jillian, you’re here, too, huh?

  Jillian: Of course I am here. Where else am I going to get Ms. Landers a decent gift? My real problem is Mr. Gregson. What do you get a male teacher? Pink really isn’t his color, and only the women’s scarves are on clearance, of course.

  Whit: I saw mugs with mustaches on them over there. According to my stylist, anything with mustaches is hot this season.

  Kori: You’re so good, Whit! I would have never thought of that.

  Whit: You have to keep up with the trends and styles, Kori. It’s not that hard.

  Now that the gifts for the unimportant in their lives have been decided, the conversation moves into the I’m-so-tired humblebrag zone. This is where all of them must compete against one another to see who is literally the busiest and the most exhausted. In order to win the title of Most Overscheduled, you can’t just have a calendar full of shopping dates and hair appointments. That simply won’t do. Workouts must be doubled, because it’s cookie season. Parties are a huge drain on these ladies—both throwing them and attending them. A good overachiever is double- and triple-booked most weekends. Typically whoever is planning an exotic trip over the holiday break wins this competition, because besides the double workouts and the copious amounts of invitations they must accept or decline, there is also the packing and other obstacles that must be overcome: passports need to be renewed, the dog needs to be boarded somewhere and the usual place is full, and a bikini wax must be endured.

  Jillian: Great idea, Whit. I don’t want to have to go to another store. I’m sooooo busy. I am literally falling asleep on my feet. Is anyone else exhausted?

  Kori: Tell me about it! You wouldn’t believe my to-do list if I showed it to you. It is literally a mile long.

  Whit: I would believe it, because mine is twice as long. I guarantee it. Literally no one is as far behind as I am this season.

  Jillian: Only twenty-two more shopping days! I don’t know how we’re supposed to get everything done!

  Whit: I know what you mean! It’s not just the shopping. I have so many parties I’ve been invited to! I will have to skip some of them. I just can’t attend them all. It’s impossible. And, honestly, I don’t want to attend them all. Are either of you going to Leila’s caroling thing?

  Jillian: No way. I was freezing last year and only three people opened their doors.

  Kori: It was kind of fun last year, except I had to pee so bad the entire time, I could barely sing.

  Jillian: Well, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go. We’ll be in Mexico.

  Kori: How fun!

  Jillian: If you say so. I think it will be fun once we get there and I can sit on a beach with a margarita. But it’s been unbearable what I have to do before we leave. I have to pack and find someone to take the kids’ hamsters—any chance either of you would want a hamster for the break?

  Whit: No way.

  Jillian: I still need to get my eyebrows threaded and a pedicure. I need to call my insurance provider to make sure we’re covered internationally. I have to stop the paper and the mail. There’s so much more that needs to be done, but the worst part is our flight leaves at 6:00 A.M. I’m already dreading the 3:00 A.M. alarm clock.

  Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!

  Whit: Well, I don’t envy you all of that nonsense, but at least I think we’re agreed that we can take Leila’s event off the calendar. That’s a start, but that still leaves so many others.

  Kori: The parties are the worst, Whit! And it’s not just us! Luna has four Christmas parties to go to just this weekend and she wants a new dress for each one.

  Jillian: I don’t blame her. I would, too.

  Kori: Yeah, but she’s eight. She can’t repeat an outfit?

  Whit: Maybe if the parties are held in your neighborhood.

  Jillian: Are you still living in Ainsley Lake Ghetto?

  Kori: Yes, the parties are being hosted by our Ainsley Lake Meadow neighbors.

  Whit: Then yeah, you can repeat Luna’s outfits.

  Jillian: Otherwise no.

  They’ve always got to get a neighborhood smackdown in there somewhere. The queen bee needs to let the wannabe know literally where she ranks. They quickly move on to helpful advice that actually sucks. All these women think that everyone’s lives could be easier and more simplified if they’d just implement “systems.” Typically, these systems have a thousand steps for something that should be two steps.

  Whit: I wish shopping for dresses was the only thing I could complain about.

  Jillian: Shopping is so low on my list. I need to make a plan of attack for all the wrapping I need to do.

  Whit: Oh, that’s easy. I have a system for wrapping.

  Kori: I need to get my wrapping under control. What’s your system, Whit?

  Whit: Well, I took the number of gifts I’ve purchased for everyone and I divided that number by twenty-four, and so now I know I need to wrap thirty-two gifts per day in order to get it all done in time.

  Kori: Did you factor in the ones that need to be shipped and hostess gifts for parties?

  Whit: Of course, Kori. That’s part of my system. Once I made my list of gifts I prioritized them by when I need them. For instance, I need Florence’s gift and the nanny’s gift by the twenty-fourth, but I need teacher gifts by the fifteenth, so the teacher gifts go into an earlier batch of wrapping. Anything that needs to be shipped is done the first week and sent out immediately so there is less clutter in my wrapping area.

  Kori: Genius.

  Jillian: How do you keep it straight? Is there an app for that?

 
Whit: No. It’s not that hard. I simply make a spreadsheet and then I mark off the gift as I get it wrapped. I also cross-reference the current list with the previous years’ lists to make certain that I’m not duplicating gifts or forgetting anyone. It’s also a lifesaver if everyone has their own wrapping paper.

  Kori: What do you mean?

  Whit: Well, for instance, all of the hostess gifts for a cookie exchange. They’re all the same gift: a cookie sheet and Christmas-tree-shaped spatula. I wrap them in the same wrapping paper. I put them all under the formal tree in the foyer and then I know that on my way out the door to a cookie exchange, I need to grab one of the gifts wrapped in adorable gingerbread man paper.

  Jillian: Oh, I do that, too. Each family member has their own wrapping paper at our house. My daughter’s gifts are pink with white snowflakes and my son’s are Christmas camo. It makes Christmas morning go so much smoother, too. No one has to try to read my gift tags—they just know which gifts are theirs. Now that I’m selling Pampered Chef, it makes my hostess gift shopping easier. Pizza cutters for everyone! I wrap them in their own paper, too—brown bags from Trader Joe’s that I cut up, and then I use baker’s twine as ribbon. It’s so cute and environmentally friendly.

  Whit: Exactly. Like tonight. We have a holiday work thing with Brick’s co-workers. I know that I need to grab a couple of the gifts in the silver foil paper.

  Jillian: You do silver foil for work parties?

  Whit: I have to now. Brick’s boss was offended last year when I gave him Jesus Is the Reason for the Season wrapping paper. He’s Jewish. I guess a few of the others are, too. Brick asked me to try to neutralize this year. I still put red bows on them, though. I hate blue.

  Kori: Well, it was a Christmas party. What do they expect?

  Whit: His boss calls it a “winter party” and it’s so awkward, because you have to keep remembering to say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.”