tunate enough to live in Southern California, my Hotel Del, in this year of their 125th anniversary, is hosting the Ah, home for the holidays! It’s a dilly of a time to throw your hands up and be the kid again: no responsibilities, no worries, no tasks, no requirements. Just sit back on the old brocade divan and wait for Mom to bring you truffles and a cup of Privateer eggnog, your older brother to slip you a sawbuck or two (plus some extra whiskey in your nog) and for Dear Old Dad to question you about what you’re doing with your money. For my part, Dad’s been asking me the same question for decades and for decades, I’ve been giving him the same answer: “Why, it’s all in my closet, right where it belongs!”
Now, it’s supposed to be darn cold this Christmas in Boston. Seems like it’s always cold in Boston and that’s why I made like a baby and headed straight out of there, getting myself to sunny California. Plus, I wanted to get into moving pictures. Did some good stuff, too. Ever see Gold Diggers of 1933? Yep, that’s me in the back, the one high-kicking in the sequined bathing suit. Nice gig, but Joan Blondell stole my part. Heifer. That cement mixer couldn’t dance to save her life. I should have had the lead. That’s all right ‘cause she had to put up with that octopus director. All those hands! He had more moves than a Navy brat. I digress. Anyhoo, like a lot of you this holiday season, I’m homeward bound and it’s a big deal for me!
First, I'm leaving my haunt, which I don't do very often: The Hotel del Coronado in gorgeous, vibrant San Diego. Ever visited? Make a ressie! There's no place like The Holidays at The Del! From Thanksgiving dinner at the famous Crown Room, to Skating by the Sea and cozy fire-ring cocktails overlooking the Pacific, it's the bee's knees, kids! (Brief bio, in case you're curious: Just after I moved out here, wouldn't it figure, I died at The Del, in a dancing incident in 1934, and it was all Ida Lupino's fault. She has no natural rhythm, all flailing arms. We still don't talk. Oh, well. At least I died sporting sequins and rhinestones and some dynamite gams!)
Secondly, despite what you living folk might think, we ghosts only get a couple of times a year when we can leave our haunts. It takes bonkers amount of energy to travel; so, we save up our strength, pretty much like you save up your cabbage, and hit the astral planes. It’s exhausting and can take all day to get across this great big country. Sure, it’s easier than enduring one of your modern flights, but it’s still arduous. Mom and Dad don't like to astral project; they're used to propeller planes, from back in their flying days. (See Mom and Dad in lg pic above, w plane.) So, I don't mind making the trip.
Once the travel day is over and we’re Home Sweet Home, it’s a cozy and comfy class act with little to do except eat, drink and exchange pressies. Cocooning at home plate can be a sweet dish, but it can also come with drawbacks, like forgoing some of those modern conveniences you dig everyday … including the Internet. Wacky, right? Some of you are getting a Christmas sans Internet and don't even realize it, yet. You poor saps. Some parents and grandparents are insistent on collecting those devices or forcing you to turn them off, making certain you all visit properly, ensuring "quality family time" and conversation. Even worse, some will force family-time via Dance, Dance or Alexa-games.
You think you have it bad, being forced to watch cable TV or compete in Dance, Dance, booze-free, with Grandmama? Try watching your parents foxtrot around the parlor. Dr. Harvey & Hildy are still listening to their old Victrola and beeswax cylinders, making me sit through verse after verse of Yale Boola!, Glow-Worm (in German!), and The Bird on Nellie’s Hat, all whilst viewing the same stereoviews I’ve seen for decades. Bonkers! Don’t worry, fair friends; there are solutions. Yes, most include gin. Ever have a Girlie Martini? No, not Dita von Teese in a giant martini glass … although, yum! A Girlie is equal parts champagne, vodka, a splash of vermouth and a maraschino cherry. Christmas is an excellent time for just such a zinger!
In the end, try to remember it’s family time. If sitting in the tiny house your nonagenarian great-uncle has lived in since the Great War, and consistently heats to eighty-eight degrees, in addition to a roaring fireplace, drives you mad, be patient. When your sister-in-law hands you an apron and expects you to help in the kitchen, even though she knows you don't ever do anything in the kitchen except craft cocktails and make espresso, be kind and oblige. When your neice's boyfriend has no problem telling everyone their political opinions are flat-wrong, just smile and pour another drink.
Ghost-families are no different than yours; they're all equally irritating and annoying ... I mean, fun and annoying. In those family moments, when you realize it's still hours before escaping into town with your beloved and a fave in-law or sibling for cocktails and revels, and you're all sitting around in sweltering silence, staring at each other and picking compulsively from bowls of stale nuts and hard candy …. well, that’s just "quality family time" and you're making someone in that room very, very happy. Drink your Girlie Martini, your Guinness, your I.P.A. or Coppola wine, suck on a pecan and appreciate it in all its absurdity. See you kittens later and enjoy those après-family gatheriings!
Happy Holidays! Abyssinia!
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