Christmas Caroler Massacre

Okay, now that I have your attention via my unashamedly titled post, I'm in a quandary...

Not too long ago, my daughter moved into her first house. I'd asked her if she'd had any trick or treaters during Halloween.

"No, I don't think they come down my street," she answered.

As a parent, that didn't set too well with me, just add that to my worry-list, but that's not for now. I said, "Wait until you get your first Christmas carolers."

Ah, I remember mine, lo, forty-one years ago, and how awful it was.

I shouldn't have answered the door. I really shouldn't have. But I did. Before me stood  a fully dressed, Dickensian group of carolers. I recognized the head singer, all teethy smiles and glazed eyes, the God-Squadder who lived caddy-corner from me, the guy who wouldn't quit pushing The Word to me.

Absolutely, inevitably quicksand-stuck, I wanted to slowly close the door, tell them they'd made a big mistake. However...even though I'm a bit of a curmudgeon and a hermit, I still have a heart.

They proceeded to sing. It was the longest Christmas song in history. My forced rictus grin stretched, ached, began to tremor, my upper lip twitching and forcing my tell. I felt like the Joker while constipated, not a lot to smile about, but you kinda have to muscle through it. 

Finally, the song finished. I wondered what I should do. Should I tip them? Give 'em a ten-spot, tell them to call an Uber and get the hell outta here? Invite them in (never a serious option)? Offer them cookies? I had no cookies. But I had cigarettes and chips and beer and NyQuil, the important ingredients to a young and dumb bachelor's lifestyle.

While I was pondering the proper response, they launched into yet ANOTHER song.

 I felt like a turtle on his back, legs slowly flailing, a car hurtling down the highway toward me. 

At long last, they completed their epic three-hour (at least it felt like it) performance. All smiles on their end. My face twitched, unused smiling muscles taxed, craziness taking over.

I hollered, "YAYYYY! Thank you, thank you very much. Happy holidays."

After shutting the door, I nearly passed out.

I like Christmas. I'm not a Scrooge. I just kinda have invasion of privacy issues. Especially when people want to sing at me. One of the roughest work-outs I've ever been through. It's truly weird.

Happy holidays, everyone, no matter what you celebrate. But, please, don't sing on my doorstep!

While I'm talking about cold, wintery work-outs, why not--during the holidays--check into the Dandy Drop Inn. I understand there's a huge winter-storm brewing and if you're caught out in the midwest, the Dandy Drop is a fine, fine place to warm your toes. Maybe lose your head, too, but not every place is perfect. Make a reservation with Dread and Breakfast, the perfect winter holiday thriller.