1. . . You're a Mean One, Ms. Grinch

Christmas isn’t one of my favorite times of the year. 

It used to be, back when my daughter was a little girl and filled with the magic and wonder of Santa, Rudolph and the whole gang.  Now that she’s grown and hasn’t seen fit to settle down and produce grandchildren, it just isn’t the same. 

I know, I know.  Christmas isn’t about gifts, it’s about spending time with those you love.  Well, that’s out this year, too. 

My parents passed three and five years ago, respectively.  My only sister lives in Albuquerque, where her grown children also live with their budding tribe of offspring.  Sure, I can go out there and feel like a seventy-second wheel, but traveling at the holidays?  Airports, crowds, cranky children, bitter parents and unpredictable weather galore? 

No, thank you.

Daughter dearest is spending the holiday in the Poconos with some friends, which I funded.  That was my gift to her, and I hope that she has a wonderful time with memories to last a lifetime.  

Even so, that leaves me – Valentine “Scrooge” Fitzsimmons – on my own.  I, with my miserly ways, will scowl at every package-laden tourist and New Yorker alike, simply because I see dollar signs wrapped in their festive paper and bows.  Have I mentioned that I’m cheap?

Yeah, I thought so.

I don’t particularly enjoy watching ice skaters at Rockefeller Center.  Families with young children.  Teens.  Couples.  They all deserve their festive family episodes, but seeing their faces light up with delight at one another kind of makes me lonely, which in turn makes me humbuggy. 

And that tree.  Don’t get me started on that tree.  It’s a huge freaking monstrosity that probably cost more to set up and decorate than I make in a month.  Not to mention the electricity consumption!  ConEd was rubbing its corporate hands with delighted greed as they watched the meter on that sucker.  I’m convinced of it.

Jeez.  I sound like a total Grinch, don’t I?

Let me take a deep breath and see if I can dig myself out of this hole. 

My heart is not three sizes too small.  I toss cash in the Salvation Army pot at least a couple times a week.  The waitresses at my favorite diner will all be receiving tokens of my affection, and so will a few co-workers.  I forked out all the cash for that Poconos trip without even grimacing at the pain it caused to my savings account, simply because it makes my daughter happy. 

So, see… I’m not totally devoid of the holiday spirit.  I’ve just been in a bad mood since Santa took his rightful spot at Macy’s on Thanksgiving Day.

Okay, so maybe a little longer than that.  Like, seven or eight months – since that unforgettable night at the Intercontinental with Jon Bon Jovi back in the Spring.

I’m not pining after the man, so just get that right out of your head.  He gave me a life-altering experience, which I am eternally grateful and privileged to have enjoyed.  I was told to never expect a repeat performance, and I don’t.  What I didn’t realize was just how far the reach is on that life-altering thing.

There have been at least half a dozen guys in the months since Jon sent me the pot of silk flowers that sits on my dresser.  We all know a girl needs somebody else to scratch her itch every now and again, right?  Self-service gets the job done, but there are moments when I crave a hot, hairy man doing his thing to my thing. 

Those are just the hard, cold biological facts.

But there’s one more hard, cold biological fact that I’m not quite as happy to own, and it’s the one that’s got me all Grinchyfied.   I can’t seem to find anybody who can get me across the orgasmic finish line, except for me.  That loses its appeal after a while, and it pisses me off that an inaccessible rock star seems to be the only other person capable of getting the job done.

Life.  Altering.

Now do you understand?  Or at least sympathize with my lack of holiday cheer? 

I thought you might.  Thank you.

Anyway…  It’s closing time on the eve of Christmas Eve and my last work day before Santa and his reindeer do their annual shtick.  Technically, the bank is open half a day for Christmas Eve tomorrow, but I’ve opted out of working.  I have three bottles of very good wine, a Chinese takeout menu and a plethora of sappy Christmas movies to watch on Amazon Prime. 

Don’t be so surprised.  The characters in those movies don’t mind when I mock and deride them with my sexually frustrated curmudgeonry.  It’s a win-win situation.  Real people are spared the runoff from my sexual frustration and I pretend I’m not a Christmas bitch.

I start my pretending a little early by pasting a wide smile on my face as I push through the diner door.  The place is crowded for five-thirty, but every place is crowded at this time of year.  It makes no matter to my faux cheerful self, though.  I merely glide through the filled tables toward the back counter, where Marjorie has already spotted me and is pouring a fresh cup of coffee.

Have I mentioned that I love Marjorie?  Like a mother, I love that woman.  Anyone who regularly supplies my obsessive need for caffeine deserves adoration on that scale, and Marjorie is my main supplier. 

“What the hell are you smiling about?” the copper-haired coffee goddess asks in true New Yorker fashion, scowling at my holiday cheer.  It’s unnatural to appear this happy in New York, unless you want to get mugged.

“Marjorie,” I chide, taking my favorite end stool and parking my Santa bag of goodies on the counter.  “Where’s your Christmas cheer?”

“Back in 1978.”

Yet one more reason I love this woman. 

I let the masquerade drop and accept my steaming cup of coffee with a grateful sigh.  “I’m trying, dammit.  I’ve been Scroogey McScroogerson for… ever, it seems.  Since I’m delivering gifts, I thought maybe I could not look like a rabid bitch who resents buying gifts for her friends.”

“Gifts?” 

I knew that would get her attention.  Marjorie is a sucker for anything under wrapping paper – a fact I found out when there was an impromptu birthday party in the diner one day.  The wistful look in her eyes was unmistakable and partly what prompted me to come with my tokens of affection.

“Gifts,” I affirm, passing over the green one with a shiny red bow.  “Merry Christmas, Marjorie.”

“Aww, Tiny, you shouldn’t have.” 

The old girl actually looks like she might shed a tear until Delia bumps into her from behind.  Then she affectionately snarls at the other waitress, who pays no attention and goes about her business. 

“Here.”  I push the bag toward the back of the counter.  “Put those back there for the girls when they’re not busy.”

“Don’t you want to watch us open them?”

Cocking a curious eyebrow at Marjorie’s snappy question, I slowly say, “That’s… not necessary.  I just want them to enjoy as they’re able.  But I’d love to see you open yours, if you have time.”

This is a totally weird scene.  She’s coming off as almost aggressive, so I try to appease her while wondering if she picked this week to give up coffee.  That would be a nightmare in a quiet week, but in the days before Christmas?  It’s a license for mass murder, in my humble opinion.

“Okay.” 

Now she’s the one who is all smiles.  My surrogate mother is creeping me out as she happily removes the bow and paper to reveal a hand-crafted coffee mug I ordered from Etsy.  It’s the same coppery color as her dyed hair and bears her name in a flowery script – and it’s coffee related.  I think it’s the perfect gift, and Marjorie’s wide smile tells me I’m not wrong. 

“Thank you, sweetie,” she gushes and actually leans across the counter for a kiss that would leave my cheek a fabulous shade of pink.  “Now I want to watch you open this.”

While I’m inconspicuously smudging away whatever L’Oreal shade resembles a flamingo’s ass, she’s busy withdrawing a fancy, creamy envelope from her apron pocket.  At first glance, I presume it’s a Christmas card.

When it slides alongside my coffee mug, I see that I’m probably wrong.  It’s more invitation-size than Christmas card, but hey.  In this case, size truly doesn’t matter.  I’m just tickled to get a treat from someone other than my daughter. 

“Marjorie, how sweet.  I never expected-“

“Oh, it’s not from me,” she interrupts with a sly grin.  “I’m just the very nosy messenger.”

My eyes fall from her face to the envelope that bears my first name.  My birth name,  “Valentine”. 

The last time I received something inscribed with that name at the diner…

There is no way.

No fucking way. 

Last time, that inscription was on the envelope accompanying a coffee and cream flower delivery.  Those flowers still sit on my dresser beneath the note taped to the mirror – the note that I still read at least three times a week and revel in the unfulfilled promise. 

And this envelope is the color of cream.  Coincidence?  I choose to believe not.

Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus.  Look at you giving out birthday presents to little ole me.

“Dammit, Tiny!  Open it already.”

My gaze flies back up to the shrewd waitress’s.

 “You didn’t give a rat’s ass whether I watched you open that gift,” I accuse without anger.  “You just wanted a guilt card to play if I don’t open this now.”

“Damn skippy.”

What else can I do besides grin at the sassy server?  She’s got moves that I could spend a decade learning, but there’s only one thing I’m interested in learning now.  The contents of this envelope.

Sliding my finger under the flap, my belly burns with anticipation.  This has to be from Jon.  Doesn’t it?  I mean, I know the press has been flaunting pictures of him the last couple of months with a beautiful local newswoman whom everyone is calling his girlfriend, but still…

Sweet Baby J, please don’t let it be a “Happy Chanukah” from David Bryan.  I will drop to the floor in a show of conniption that will go down in the annals of history, giving “ungrateful” a whole new meaning.   

Not that I don’t like Dave.  It would actually be cool to hear from him, but my girl parts are flapping like four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and partridge in my pan-tees.  If this is a gift certificate for a night of debauchery, I will weep with joy.

“Who brought it?” I demand after unsealing the flap.  Like it matters.  Satan himself could’ve delivered it, and I would still open the damn thing. 

“Messenger service.”

Damn.  There’s still a sliver of uncertainty about the sender, then.

No there isn’t.  This is my frigging Hallmark Christmas miracle.  I just know it is, and my hand trembles with excitement as I slide out the envelope’s contents.

“Hurry up, already!”

“Stifle it, Marjorie,” I order without moving one iota faster. 

I am savoring this moment like a diabetic savors that one bite of cake.  Like a recovering alcoholic savors the smell of booze.  Like an Eskimo savors the sunlight after that stupid-long winter.  Like a drug addict….  Oh, never mind.  You get the fucking point.

The savoring continues when I don’t look at the words on the super-thick, rich vellum card that slips free.  I tuck it into my lap – so Marjorie can’t look either – and set the cream envelope aside. 

”Oh, Jeez,” my matronly friend grouses.  “You’re worse than a damn soap opera for dragging out the drama.”

“I like drama, especially when it’s got the potential to be soooooo, so good.”

Marjorie, of course, is completely unaware of my recent orgasmic challenges.  That’s not information I go sharing with….  Well, anyone.  Late-onset frigidity is not something I want to advertise.

“You’re kilin’ me here, kid.”

“Okay, fine.”  I whip the luxurious cardstock from where it’s getting the fingering of its life in my lap and smack it down on the formica counter.  With a deep breath of anticipation, I finally let my eyes absorb the message imprinted upon the front, and…

The anticipatory breath gushes out of my lungs in defeat.

It isn’t from Jon.