Piece on earth? Our most sexless holiday

(695 words)

I veered toward the naughty list the other day when our youngest asked me what I wanted for Christmas.

I certainly couldn’t say, “A really good romp,” to a 6-year-old and she wouldn’t have understood if I did.

So I just smiled at her earnestly and said, “Peace on Earth,” which is maybe the most boring answer you could give someone who considers a new Pillow Pet the coolest thing Santa could bring.

For most parents, peace on Earth is only slightly less elusive than the one involving the alternative spelling.

I can’t remember the last time I had sex on Christmas Day, although by one equation it was clearly 1999. Yes, we had a child born exactly nine months to the day after Christmas.

Being blessed with the greatest gift of life, alas, means a severe reduction in the number of times you’ll forever more get to enjoy the second greatest gift.

In fact, if you gauge every pregnancy by the typical 38-week period, the most popular conception day of the year is -- ta! da! -- today!

According to this New York Times chart which ranks the popularity/frequency of birthdays, the most common birthday is Sept. 16. That means the most popular conception date is today, Christmas Eve.

Silent night, holy night, my ass.

The least common birthday is February 29. That’s the leap year date. I know many married men who have sex about once every four years so maybe that has something to do with some kind of cycle women are reluctant to share.

The second least common?

Christmas Day! Can you believe it? Life’s greatest gift is stingiest on the day most renown for giving.

Fewer people are born on Christmas Day than any other. I wonder if OBGYNs induce birth prior to Christmas so they can be home with their families.

I can understand that. Plus, Christmas Day would be an awful birthday. Those who crapped out in this regard include Jimmy Buffett, Karl Rove, Annie Lennox, Humphrey Bogart and, oh, what’s his name?

Oh, that’s right. Jesus Christ.

Or so we’re told.

Many scholars say ancient clerics chose December 25 so it would coax pagans celebrating the winter solstice that a more sacred holiday would be preferable and free of unseemly secular taint. 

Ho, ho, ho.

That means many of the people who were born on one of the holiest days of the year were conceived on one of the least, April Fool’s Day.

You can find a handy conception calculator right here.

A commercial caught my eye the other day. It featured a knowing babysitter telling two young girls that Mommies and Daddies need special alone time.

My mind went right to sex, of course. I thought maybe the commercial was going to break new ground and show some kind of holiday sex toys you can use to really stuff your stockings.

But then it cut away to an appealing young couple sitting at McDonald’s acting all orgasmic over breakfast sandwiches.

I was furious. How deceptive. I thought about taking to social media to vent about the fraudulent ads that tease our libidos while aiming at our appetites.

But I figured that would a waste of time so I instead got into my car, drove to McDonald’s and snagged an Egg McMuffin and a hash brown.

I read one interesting argument that said it’s kind of sinful to have sex on the day we celebrate the savior’s birth.

While that only heightens the appeal for me, I believe it’s nonsense.

Why would anyone, especially, the Prince of Peace, want to restrict people from enjoying our common humanity? 

No, I think He’d be more like Al Czervik, the Rodney Dangerfield character who at the end of “Caddyshack,” exalts one of the most hopeful and euphoric lines ever heard in cinematic history.

“Hey, everybody! We’re all gonna get laid!”

Sure, it’s not exactly, “God bless us all! Everyone!” but it has its own special resonance.

Consider yourself lucky if you get to spend even a few moments tomorrow hugging even just one person you love. And if hugging’s all you get to do then that’s still pretty good.

Merry Christmas!

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Re-run Sunday: Christmas time = no time

I kind of vowed when I posted this last Christmas this wouldn't happen again. It did. The season rushed by again with nary a single jolly contribution from me. I hope my wishing you a Merry Christmas counts. It's from the heart.

Time doesn’t fly. It drives a Maserati 190 mph down the Autobahn blithely oblivious to the brick some prankster strapped to the accelerator.

Where did Christmas go?

People who think Christmas time refers to a season are wrong.

Christmas time is a spacial acceleration that turns weeks into days, days into hours, etc.

It’s like the whole season disappears down a black hole, only the black is replaced with tinsel, glitter, and flashing colored Christmas lights and the whole giddy trip is soundtracked like one of those sped-up Alvin & The Chipmunks monstrosities.

I feel like I didn’t do anything.

My wife did all the shopping, all the wrapping, all the organizing, all the cheer spreading and somehow found time to patiently listen to all my bitching about never having any time to do anything.

I feel like I didn’t spend enough special time with my daughters, my wife or all my needy bar buddies.

Christmas cards? Not a chance.

I haven’t sent a batch of cards in 10 years. I always say I’ll compensate by spending an afternoon calling dozens of far-flung friends just to wish them Merry Christmas.

So far, I’ve phoned just one dude and part of my motivation was to remind him he still owes me $20 so that taints the whole gesture.

I cracked up an old friend earlier this year when I told him my greatest quality was self-forgiveness. I was telling him about my perceived shortcomings in dealing with my aging Mom.

“No matter how often I lose my temper,” I said, “I just say, ‘Hey, I’m doing the best I can. I’m only human.'”

It’s like I’ve extended myself a personal get-my-conscience-out-of-jail-free card.

How come I can so easily overlook cruel failings in dealing with my dear mother, yet feel forlorn I let Christmas slip by?

Is it because Christmas is only once a year?

I wondered this morning if this self-imposed funk would lift if, geez, I found a big bag of money.

I don’t think that’s it. I don’t need more Christmas money.

I need more Christmas.

I need time to take my wife out to dinner and show her how much she means to me.

I need two full days to take each of our daughters somewhere Christmas special so they’ll have memories of Daddy lavishing them with the attention every little girl deserves.

I need a night to spend with my fading mother so she’ll maybe realize her son’s there for more than just pills and bills.

And what would Christmas be without more time getting gooned up with all my buddies? The more time I spend all alone writing, the more I appreciate the time I get to spend with the friends who help keep me essentially silly.

I wish I had time to sit home alone for an evening in front of the fire to read, watch an old Western, and marvel at the shabby little Christmas tree the girls decorated while I was out doing something I don’t remember.

Maybe that quiet little reverie is what I need to deploy the self-forgiveness card and realize I’m doing the best I can.

I’m sure you are, too. I can guess I’m not alone in wondering where the time went.

I’m sure you wish you had more time to do what matters most at Christmas -- and it’s not getting gooned up with friends, although that is high-up on the to-do list.

If some Christmases, all we have time to do is wish one another a sincere Merry Christmas then let it be done.

Merry Christmas, my friends! Let there be peace on Earth!

That’s straight from the heart.

I hope you’ll forgive me if it sounded a little rushed.