¡Feliz Navidad, Miami! As I sit by my Christmas tree and look upon the disco ball ornaments as they glitter and shine, I stroll through my holiday memory lane.
This is the time of year that I eat tons of lechon, yuca, and arroz con frijoles. I have no idea what that gelatinous cylinder (that only exists in the movies and on TV) called "cranberry sauce" tastes like. And that's okay; I don't feel like I'm missing anything.
I feel that the rest of the country is missing plenty. I'd rather listen to DJ Laz's remix of "El Burrito de Belen" than "Frosty the Snowman." I'd rather eat flan than marzipan. And I'm very happy to not have to use mittens. I need my fingers free to do touching.
Santa, the Reyes Magos, and my family and friends have been very thoughtful and giving to me. A guy like me can never have enough white shoes, gold chains, or subscriptions to Nintendo Power magazine.
In junior high, the teacher made us do "Secret Santa." I'd never heard
of this, and didn't give this ritual much merit. We all drew names from
a Santa hat, and had to give a secret gift to the person whose name we drew.
I
forgot all about it, and when I found a Twix bar and Christmas card in
my cubby hole, I was a little confused. All the other kids had big
smiles and little presents. I realized I never got anything for Johnny.
So, quick thinking: I put the Twix bar some random kid gave me in
Johnny's cubby. Secret Santa solved.
Minutes later, Johnny
walked up to me, and he was visibly upset. He accused me of being his
Secret Santa. I denied it. He went on to explain that he drew my name
from the hat and that he was the one that gave me the Twix bar. Very
embarrassing.
A much more enjoyable and less embarrasing
Christmas memory is when "Santi Clo," as me and my Abuela call him,
gave me an aqua Polo shirt, a bottle of Drakkar Noir, and Z Cavaricci
shorts. That combo was the hit of the house party, and I wore it with
pride under my altar boy robe every Sunday. All the older girls
complimented me on my style and manly scent. I've not since found a
pair of pants that let me move as freely as those Z Cavaricci shorts.
So,
Three Kings, if you guys are reading this: Please! Melchior! Gaspar!
Balthazar! Bros! Come on! Get me a pair of pink Z-Cavs, so I can do the
Running Man better. You know I always hook up your camels with the best
hay and water from my tap. I listen to the Vanilla Ice tape you guys
got me last year at least twice a day. Don't think I don't appreciate
you guys.
As one rey to three others: Hook me up with those royal pants, please. I promise I won't gift them back!
