It’s the last Sunday of November, and we embark again on another dizzying, fattening and expensive holiday spree. The holidays can bring out the best and worst in all of us. Even after years of being charm schooled, I am still the perfect yuletide monster. I’ve had many disasters in matters of decorum when it came to holiday etiquette. So, I decided to make my holiday resolutions, a completely different deck of cards from my New Year’s resolutions, as one can never have too many resolutions to break.
I’m a recovered regifter. That’s right, I used to regift. And if you’re brave enough to admit it, then you’re cured, and you’ll realize the road to salvation for a regifter is to go monoclass. I started realizing my regifting affliction had me on the road to perdition when I grabbed a horrible wrought-iron swan from my parent’s Christmas tree to use for a Kris Kringle at a friend’s house. There were many attractive gifts that I was eyeing under the tree, some of which were A.P.C. tees, Diptyque candles, and Calvin Klein pjs. Needless to say, my swan was the one ugly duckling. After a random draw, I saw each of my friends gamely getting the prizes I wanted. I got the last number, and guess what I got to take home?
My very own swan. What goes around comes around, I guess.
I guess it came to an embarrassing head when I regifted a friend with a pair of candleholders given to me by another friend. It was rather unique and eye-catching, and I reckon my friend (the regifted one) took a shine to it. Because one day, as I was reading a home magazine at the salon while having my nails done, the ubiquitous pair of candlesticks was glaring at me from the glossy pages of the magazine as they featured my friend’s house. The caption included "Candlesticks, a gift from Celine Lopez." S**t. So now, I’ve decided to go luxe monoclass as an homage to the Concorde (it doesn’t make sense, I know); everyone from my soul mate to an intriguing acquaintance will be receiving the same thing from me. It’s clever and sweet, I promise, and I put lots of thought into it. It may lack that personal touch, but at least you’ll know it came from me and not someone else’s piggy bank.
The holiday parties have started early. In fact, last week was the launch of a friend’s event company in conjunction with welcoming a friendly American expat named Chris Parker in his very minimalist ivory abode (not even sure if I got the house description right). It was grand: great food, good wine, stayed up with friends sharing lovely and forgettable anecdotes. One problem: I never met Mr. Parker. I did eat his food, drank his booze, but never shook his hand. Maybe I did, but in between my uncooperative outfit and well-lubricated cranium, I would never know. Mr. Parker, I have one thing to say: mind your manor and I’ll mind my manners. I hope we’ll meet again soon, and the first round is on me.
So, I’ll be mindful of whose house I’m in. Sometimes, it does slip my mind. And send a thank you note always.
Party hopping is also an assault to one’s senses. As the days before Christ was born culminates, the more demanding the scene gets. Last year, I actually had seven parties to attend in one night. My outfit and I decided to lie and feign illness. I like having a good time, but not that much! So now, I’ve decided to just wing it. I’ll put all invitations in a fishbowl (text messages re-written in post-its included) and whatever I pick, that’s where I’ll be and stay. If it’s some die event, I’ll give myself a chance and pick out another one. It’s Christmas, after all.
What you take, you have to give back. Or so is my philosophy on the irresponsible flinging of cash on a party. This year, my Christmas party’s theme will be summertime for no specific reason. I just hate having the color red around me, which is the official color of the season. I’m sure everyone after the second week of December will wish it was summer again given traffic, solicitations, endless family things and etc. Mr. Parker, you’re invited and you don’t have to mind me at all!
In London, tired of all the small talk, a group of distinctive socialites have actually created a "party" where they debate on serious topics. I don’t know if this will fly with me as I already have problems remembering more essential things, such as my host. But granted I will throw one in my Summertime Christmas party, I will be using "How VAT and the insidious alcohol tax has made this party very unreasonable" as my subject. Opinions will certainly be interesting, given that my debaters will be in bikinis with their holiday guts hanging out while sipping calorie- laden spiked Kool Aids. It’s this or the newest claim du jour: I’m broke. It seems like everyone loves talking about how poor they are. Apt, around this time of the year. Do they say this so we won’t expect presents? I say it because, in my case, it’s true. Holiday season is fur season and fur, well, will cost you a mint (even good fake ones cost a lot and I’m not talking about skinned Teddy Ruxpins here). One thing, though, if you’re gonna wear fur (even fake) for the holidays, make sure there’s a reason to. A tan in the Alps is very nice. A floor-length J. Mendel coat in the tropics, not very. And of course, all-around outfit season planning. As hard as things get, I just can’t repeat an outfit. Can’t, can’t, can’t!
It’s this time of the year that everyone gets fat. Even throat-fisted supermodels give up. It’s just too much. I mean, just the booze calories is enough to make ol’ Saint Nick a healthy image model. Think booze in creamy eggnogs. Bad. Downing it with stuffing, leg of anything, and some fruitcake that has finally found itself on a plate after years of being rotated from different Christmas trees. (
Unsubstantiated fact: fruitcake is the most regifted thing on earth. What is fruitcake anyway?) Super bad. You’re too hung over to work out, too drunk to pass up the carbs and too broke to refuse food. So you get fat.
I’m not trying to piss on the holiday season. I know I’ll have fun and I’ll have lots of gifts that I promise never to regift. But the fat part, that leaves me very concerned. Time to plan the outfits!
