caroleannmoleti

So, it's the most wonderful time of the year, right? Bah, humbug! I am totally overwhelmed by everything I need to do, guilt ridden that I might not get to the cookie baking, which feels like a total betrayal of my beloved grandmother's legacy.

I'm so sick of trying to figure out what gifts to get for family members who have everything they need that I've forgotten to enjoy the special moments of the holiday season: bright lights which banish the darkness and desolation of cold winter nights, quiet moments with family and friends celebrating my husband's Christmas Eve birthday, and the beautiful music and liturgies which evoke a sense of peace, generosity, hope and re-birth.

"'Tis the Season" is a spoof about an urban shopping adventure --one of those moments when that spirit (no matter what you choose to call it) makes its presence known and overcomes all the negativity. I can't think of any piece of my nonfiction that better demonstrates my New York City snark-- and my magical realist approach to both my life and writing.

I'm not sending holiday cards this year so here are my greetings. If you'd like autographed copies of any or all of the anthologies, email me at carole@caroleannmoleti.com They would make great gifts for readers looking for some inspiration or a few laughs.

I've posted and excerpt of "Everything Must Go," the Oasis Journal 2009 contest winner for best nonfiction at http://caroleannmoleti.blogspot.com

A segment of "The Dance Class," published in This Path is posted at
http://cmoleti-cnm.livejournal.com/7177.html

And here is the opening of "'Tis the Season."

Gone are the days when I joined packs of crazed women who’d heard that they were indeed getting a shipment of Beanie Babies.™ Paying three times the list price for select Pokémon™ merchandise has been abandoned, along with select holiday rituals like all day trips upstate to tramp through the mud and snow to cut down a crooked, stunted Christmas tree.

I once envisioned my kids revering the mother who loved them enough to make a fool out of herself, taking them on urban shopping adventures that would go down in history. They are now sure I’m nuts, expletive deleted.

The excitement of the hunt is now confined to scouting bargains in the big chains and saving a lot of money by spending hundreds on clothes and household goods. The trees sold on the corner are no more expensive, when you consider the gas and mileage. They stand up straight and aren’t missing an entire side from growing too close to a neighboring tree.

The spirit of the goddess of holiday and family tradition is invincible however. One week before Christmas, she stirred. I baked five batches of cookies and sent an unprecedented number of fruit baskets to the remaining names on my list. But the biggest challenge lay ahead. I still needed something to assuage the Christmas morning grief of my daughter who'd asked for the life-size, battery operated Barbie™ car. Santa was not caving on that one. I took a deep breath and hit the toy store in the ethnic polyglot of my old Bronx neighborhood, hearing more Spanish than English interspersed with the musical, happy tones of Caribbean accents.

I had not lost my touch and scouted out the last toy shopping cart hidden on another display in a box too huge to carry. There were no real shopping carts (remember it’s a toy store four days before Christmas). I grabbed a kiddie laptop because my daughter wanted to "type all the time, just like Mommy." I rounded it all out with plastic food and a can opener with realistic sounds.

The shopping goddess creates a heightened awareness while on the hunt. I noted a line in electronics--and a security guard. Her dampened spirit spurred me on.

"Do you have any game systems?" I whispered to the guard.

"Yes," he whispered back, looking over his shoulder. "Not sure how many though."

"Okay." I mouthed my reply and pushed the waist high box with the other gifts piled on top to the end of the line.

Before long, about thirty gamers in punk, chains, leather and spiked hair mingled with a few grandmothers looking for some game the kids want. A Mr. T type, with a gun tucked into a holster worked the crowd, wiggling his butt and doing a fast-talking, finger snapping routine. He schmoozed us with assurances if we stayed orderly we’d "be good to go."

©Carole Ann Moleti, 2009. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced in any form without permission.