Kitty Baker | Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Yesterday, Dec. 1, marked the end of my three-week totalitarian reign over Christmas music. My roommate is now completely free to listen to as much Christmas music as she likes in my presence. I have protected the sanctity of Thanksgiving and am now quite happy to move on to snow and twinkling lights and the wreath hanging from our window for all of LaFun to see.
Music and I have had a sometimes problematic, but mostly loving, relationship. A frequent nickname given to me by my beloved family has been the Singing Nazi, a name stemming from my incessantly loud voice that would pick and choose arbitrarily what songs we would sing in any exceedingly long car ride. If all of my sisters would like to sing Meat Loaf and I was not in the mood for Meat Loaf, my loud dissenting voice would be heard in the back singing anything else (especially if it sounded very discordant). It used to drive my siblings up the proverbial wall (and sometimes literally over the back seats so they could throttle me and stop the madness), but now they have come up with quippy and witty responses in order to throw me off my normal reign of terror:
Me: singing various One Direction songs
Eliza: “Who sings that, Kitty?”
Me: “One Direction.”
Eliza: “Well, let’s keep it that way.”
Now, while my sisters have gained more control of the radio as they have been able to fight back against my desire for musical numbers and Disney classics, there is one area they have not been able to trump me in, and that is when Christmas music is played in the house. I don’t know whether it is out of respect for my weird appreciation for Thanksgiving, or if my parents actually find too much non-traditional Christmas music a bit grating, but the sounds of “Jingle Bells” and “White Christmas” are never heard anywhere near the vicinity of the house until Dec. 1.
It’s not that I don’t love Christmas. I do. But there is something to be said for waiting until the actual first day of December that makes you appreciate it so much more. And Thanksgiving is not a holiday to be walked all over. It is a day on which you give thanks for what you have, eat a ridiculous amount of delicious food and watch two football games without your mother exclaiming that “the TV is the devil and it should be banned from the house.” Thanksgiving is a precious thing and shouldn’t be wasted.
When my sisters and I were little, Christmas music didn’t even come on the radio until December, and that was the only place you could listen to Christmas music. Now, with newfangled sites like Pandora and YouTube (sites that might have been out when I was a child, but I was unaware of the glorious Internet), you can have Christmas music at any time you’d like. A bit blue about the blistering heat that even copious amounts of air conditioning does not improve? Open up your Pandora page and listen to some Dean Martin to console you. Wish you could enjoy hot cocoa and baggy sweaters even though your seatbelt is burning into your skin? Listen to Bing Crosby crooning through your speakers.
In some ways, Christmas, being the beautiful, wonderful, enjoyable thing it is, has crept into everyday life. Now, there might even be a radio station in the car that is entirely devoted to Christmas (if anyone still listens to the radio in the car).
To be fair, I might be a little too Grinchy about this. But it’s not that I want to steal Christmas; I want to cherish it and make it special again. My reign as Caesar Kitty for the last few weeks of November also means my ears are not burdened with the unfortunate favorite, “The Christmas Shoes.” And for that, I shall be thankful for every Thanksgiving.
The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.