up, I thought:
It’s not bad in here
.
If you set it up right, you could sit quietly among your things. You could use it as an office. It could be like a home away from home. Maybe this is where I will go when I need space.
Then it hit me: why was I looking for a space to be alone in, when I had waited so long to find someone to share my space with so I
wouldn’t
be alone?
And then everything went black.
The lights, it turned out, were on a timer in these storage units. That would definitely be a problem as far as using mine for an office. Apparently I would have to find space for Ian, Ian’s things, and me in our house. And in the years to come, I thought, if we’re lucky enough to expand our family, we’ll pack up our things and, together, we will look for a bigger storage unit.
The First No No Noel
I blame the Pottery Barn holiday catalog for the fact that Ian and I, both Jews, kicked off one of our first holiday seasons as a married couple at Home Depot, picking out a Christmas tree. I cannot blame our kids, who begged us mercilessly for a Christmas tree, because we did not yet have kids. I cannot blame my parents, because although my dad initially supported Bush (one and two), he never supported the Hanukkah bush. In fact, I recall that he was extremely judgmental of one Jewish family in our predominantly non-Jewish hometown of Tulsa who did have a Christmas tree every year. Even though it was decorated exclusively with blue ornaments and silver bows, my dad made it clear to my sister and me that he thought the whole “Jews with Trees” movement was in very poor taste.
Then again, my dad was a man who, in his wood-paneled wet bar, had highball glasses featuring busty women whose clothes disappeared when the glass was full. So I learned early on that taste was subjective.
Fast-forward to November 2006. Ian and I had been married a year and a half, and I was flipping through the Pottery Barn holiday catalog, with page after page featuring something beautiful but not for us, because we were Jews. In my opinion, Jews have yet to make Hanukkah decor beautiful, unless you consider a blue and white paper dreidel beautiful, but what can you expect from a holiday whose spelling is annually up for debate?
So as I browsed past monogrammed velvet stockings and quilted tree skirts and pinecone wreaths and silver-plated picture frames that doubled as stocking holders (genius!), I said to Ian, “This is why I sometimes wish I celebrated Christmas. Everything looks so cozy and inviting.” And much to my surprise, he replied, “We can celebrate Christmas, if you want.” And, like a twelve-year-old, I said, “We can?” And he said, “Sure.”
It seemed so subversive. Christmas?
Really?
I thought about it for a moment. Or rather, I thought about what my parents would think. But my parents were 1,200 miles away. They weren’t visiting that season. They wouldn’t even need to know. (Until now. Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad!) Still, even just considering the possibility felt wrong and dirty and . . . totally exhilarating, like your first night away at college, when you realize you can stay out until dawn because nobody is waiting up for you. Ian and I were consenting adults. We were married. This was our home. Why couldn’t we celebrate whatever the hell we wanted?
We decided we could, and proceeded to embrace the holiday in all of its commercial glory. For example, while I know it can be annoying to Christmas veterans, I discovered there is nothing I love more than hearing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” while shopping for stocking stuffers. I love stocking stuffers. I love having stockings to stuff. I love that whole sections of stores, from CVS to Neiman Marcus, suddenly opened up to me. I love tinsel. It’s so simple, yet so elegant! I love that as soon as I told a Catholic friend what I was up to, she invited me to a gingerbread-house decorating party. How fun is
that
? And why hadn’t I been invited
It’s not bad in here
.
If you set it up right, you could sit quietly among your things. You could use it as an office. It could be like a home away from home. Maybe this is where I will go when I need space.
Then it hit me: why was I looking for a space to be alone in, when I had waited so long to find someone to share my space with so I
wouldn’t
be alone?
And then everything went black.
The lights, it turned out, were on a timer in these storage units. That would definitely be a problem as far as using mine for an office. Apparently I would have to find space for Ian, Ian’s things, and me in our house. And in the years to come, I thought, if we’re lucky enough to expand our family, we’ll pack up our things and, together, we will look for a bigger storage unit.
The First No No Noel
I blame the Pottery Barn holiday catalog for the fact that Ian and I, both Jews, kicked off one of our first holiday seasons as a married couple at Home Depot, picking out a Christmas tree. I cannot blame our kids, who begged us mercilessly for a Christmas tree, because we did not yet have kids. I cannot blame my parents, because although my dad initially supported Bush (one and two), he never supported the Hanukkah bush. In fact, I recall that he was extremely judgmental of one Jewish family in our predominantly non-Jewish hometown of Tulsa who did have a Christmas tree every year. Even though it was decorated exclusively with blue ornaments and silver bows, my dad made it clear to my sister and me that he thought the whole “Jews with Trees” movement was in very poor taste.
Then again, my dad was a man who, in his wood-paneled wet bar, had highball glasses featuring busty women whose clothes disappeared when the glass was full. So I learned early on that taste was subjective.
Fast-forward to November 2006. Ian and I had been married a year and a half, and I was flipping through the Pottery Barn holiday catalog, with page after page featuring something beautiful but not for us, because we were Jews. In my opinion, Jews have yet to make Hanukkah decor beautiful, unless you consider a blue and white paper dreidel beautiful, but what can you expect from a holiday whose spelling is annually up for debate?
So as I browsed past monogrammed velvet stockings and quilted tree skirts and pinecone wreaths and silver-plated picture frames that doubled as stocking holders (genius!), I said to Ian, “This is why I sometimes wish I celebrated Christmas. Everything looks so cozy and inviting.” And much to my surprise, he replied, “We can celebrate Christmas, if you want.” And, like a twelve-year-old, I said, “We can?” And he said, “Sure.”
It seemed so subversive. Christmas?
Really?
I thought about it for a moment. Or rather, I thought about what my parents would think. But my parents were 1,200 miles away. They weren’t visiting that season. They wouldn’t even need to know. (Until now. Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad!) Still, even just considering the possibility felt wrong and dirty and . . . totally exhilarating, like your first night away at college, when you realize you can stay out until dawn because nobody is waiting up for you. Ian and I were consenting adults. We were married. This was our home. Why couldn’t we celebrate whatever the hell we wanted?
We decided we could, and proceeded to embrace the holiday in all of its commercial glory. For example, while I know it can be annoying to Christmas veterans, I discovered there is nothing I love more than hearing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” while shopping for stocking stuffers. I love stocking stuffers. I love having stockings to stuff. I love that whole sections of stores, from CVS to Neiman Marcus, suddenly opened up to me. I love tinsel. It’s so simple, yet so elegant! I love that as soon as I told a Catholic friend what I was up to, she invited me to a gingerbread-house decorating party. How fun is
that
? And why hadn’t I been invited
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