It's Beginning to Feel a Little More Like Christmas

I’ve had the hardest time getting in the holiday spirit this year. I think it primarily has to due with the fact that I’m living in a warm place for the first time, um, ever; the past few Christmases, I was living in New York, and the one before that Denmark, when Scott and I took a month-long trip around Eastern and Central Europe. You wanna feel like it’s Christmas? Drive through the -10 degrees and two feet of snow in Romania, and you’ll be in the holiday spirit in no time. Sure, we’ve had a couple “cold” days here in the Bay Area where the temp topped out in the 50′s, and all San Franciscans busted out their woolly best and started with the “woe is meeee; it’s soooo cold here!” (Want some cheese to go with that whine?) But for the most part, it’s been perfectly sunny, and you need a light coat at best. Not that I’m complaining—I much prefer this weather to the cold and dreary East Coast—but really Mother Nature, how is a girl supposed to fa la la when it looks like summer just outside her window?

Christmas Market in Brasov, Romania

The thing is, I’m usually the first to break out the Christmas tunes (I usually have this rule that on Oct. 1, Christmas season officially begins…yes, I’m that girl you love to hate, the one who Wal-Mart and Target and every other superstore targets the second the Fourth of July comes and goes). But I’ve only listened to Christmas music twice (twice!) thus far, and that was only because I was baking Christmas goods and penning my cards and it only felt right. And don’t even get me started on how I’ve yet to watch my favorite movie on the planet, Love Actually, one. Single. Time.

With NYC roomies, Trick and Lindy, at our Elfin’ Good Time party in 2007

So this week has been all about bringing back the Christmas love. First, there was the Ugly Sweater Soiree. Then, Thursday night, Moose went as my date to the opening of the San Francisco Ballet’s Nutcracker. While it was lovely and all, we both still donned thin dresses and bare legs and didn’t even require jackets; Moose accurately remarked that it felt more like July than December out. (What gives, San Francisco? While I don’t dig the cold myself, it would be nice to get a couple uses out of my stash of winter coats.)

Moose, me, Jen at the Nutcracker Thursday

Still, if you’re female, I ask: How can you not love the ballet? It’s so romantic, so pretty, so girly, and even though I can barely tell a pas de deux from a pas de cheval, I still enjoy watching the ballerinas do their thang and not-so-silently envying their bodies. “Did you see the guns on that one?!”

The War Memorial Opera House

And I just love every single note of Tchaikovsky’s score; I think I know every bar by heart. You see, like every young girl, I took various dance classes until I was 16. Now, I was never any good, of course, and I’m not saying that to be humble (you know humility is not my strong suit). (In fact, if we’re ever at a club together, I suggest you leave the dance floor once I have a few drinks in me and begin to sway not so discreetly, because no one deserves to be blinded in quite that way.) Still, I was always athletic, so I could get by—marginally—in most dance classes and, thus, was cast in the local production of the Nutcracker every other year. However—and this is a huge however—I was always stuck in the back of some horrible ensemble part. The first year, age 11, I was…wait for it…A MOUSE. I had to paint all my exposed skin this metallic gray color, and our costumes were made from Hershey Kisses patterns. The only saving grace was that several of my best friends—all of whom were good dancers and would go on to play the Snow Queen, the Peacock, even Clara in years to come—were mice alongside me. But it only got better from there, because when I was 13? I was cast as a freakin’ MAID. The person who sits and watches and wishes she could be having fun in the opening scence, and better yet, wearing a better costume, with all the party goers, but instead is stuck cleaning up after their sorry asses.

From another dance recital, circa early 90′s; don’t have any pics of me as a mouse on file, but will work on finding some when I head home next week…

But there were some slight variations in the San Francisco Nutcracker than in past ones I’ve seen. First off, it took place in…well…San Francisco. In the 50′s. I can’t exactly recall when and where the real Nutcracker was supposed to be set, but I always pictured early 1900s England, didn’t you? Secondly, while my favorite part is the second act when the various nationalities take the stage—you know, the Russians, Arabians, Chinese—in the SF production, there are sexy, little French girls (complete with garters). Not only that, but they waved around ribbons just like the rhythmic gymnasts in the Olympics, which naturally put that horrible 80′s ad “Ribbon dancer, all around, dancing in the street (come on and do it!)” in my head (what, you guys don’t remember that one?). And how could I neglect to mention the poor academy members who were cast as the horses pulling the Snow King and Queen’s sleigh? A fate surely worse, and just as embarrassing, as my days as a mouse. Every time they pranced across the stage, Moose and I let out a collective chortle and some remark about My Glitter Ponies. I was mortified for them. (Sadly, we were not allowed to take pictures during the performance, so I have no solid evidence of the My Little Ponies in all their plastic glory.)

Photo from the SF Ballet archives

Then, the Chinese dancers came out with a big dragon head, and the first thing that came to mind was that Top Model episode in Cycle 9, where Tyra announces the models are going to Shanghai and starts dancing about the room, fan in hand, alongside the creepy dragon, while you could tell all the contestants were thinking, “that’s it; she’s finally gone off her rocker for good!”

From youtube

And can we just talk for a minute about the nearly-transparent tights the dudes were rocking? I mean, if I were a parent, I’m not quite sure I’d want my kid to be exposed to such X-rated costumes. You couldn’t help but stare. Everything, waist down, was sitting there fully exposed at our eye-level. Every dimple, every butt cheek, every…well, you get the picture. In fact, at intermission, we ran into my friend Jen and her mom, and the first remark her 50-year-old mother made was something to the effect of “Well, they leave little to the imagination, don’t they? I was almost too distracted to pay attention to the dancing!” Well put, Jen’s Mom. I mean, I’ve been to plenty of ballets, musicals and the like, but this was the first performance that I attended where I felt like a giggly 12-year-old schoolgirl who couldn’t focus on the matter at hand (um, the dancing, that is). Then, Jemima pointed out the fact that this was my first San Francisco ballet performance, and the clothing—or lack thereof—suddenly made perfect sense.

Photo from the SF Ballet archives

So while the Nutcracker boosted my holiday cheer quotient justthismuch, I’m definitely looking forward to heading home to Tennessee on Wednesday, where my family goes all out with the decorating, baking and Christmas soirees (also, there’s rumor of SNOW in the South, yippeee!).

Don’t worry, I’ll be better dressed this time ’round

What have you done this year to get into the spirit?

One of my Maltese Posse embraces Christmas by eating Santa