Thursday, November 19, 2009

Holiday Reminders....

Your host has looked over the afternoon's post and vagued the usual disturbing seasonal waft.
To someone without the non-profit know-how of your Third Mate, it might appear that everyone is standing around with a hand out, insisting that I tender some sort of pecuniary "help." I don't know if this is due to my recent musings on the philanthropic art, but the coincidence appears obvious.
I was more encouraged by the fifty-eight-pound carton that FedEx had left in error on the estate's service entrance mat. A box that clearly belonged at the Colonial farmstead up and across the street.
'Life is hard. After all, it kills you.' Kate said that.(Entertaining aside: When I traipsed the errant package to its correct recipient -- a delightful neighbor lady in her early next century -- she remarked on "the difficulty that young people have these days telling the difference between 'five' and 'six.'" I chuckled, but later thought: Ma'am, I may have encountered some disquiet with temporal displacement, but I'm not exactly what you might call a peer. So go easy with the "kids these days" stuff.)
As an independently-engaged operative, I don't find myself responding to begging letters with any great liberality. I do ante up what I can and when I can, because I believe in the reasonable missions of most charitable alliances. It does no organization any good to get a check for thirty-five dollars when a simple, ready check for a hundred grand will cover most of the outfit's operating budget. But that's a choice which I leave to my neighbors and fellow travellers.
Please allow me, shipmate, to clearly and wholly deny suggestions that I won't feed this year's various worthy kitties or "répondez s'il vous plaît merci mais non" to seasonal holiday shindig invitations. Every solicitation must be answered -- even the Nigerian ones and the ones from those who never put me on their e-mail list, didn't send me the right novelty promotional geegaw, or pay me.
Each fundraising event must be attended -- likely not by me, of course -- but it is my fondest delight that between now and the date of the least possible lengthy daylight that I fill each moment of darkness with as much par-tay as reasonably available, open bar or whatnot.
Which is, apparently, the way everyone else will have it because today I have received nine "special holiday fundraiser" invitations to add to the growing stack of "annual seasonal soirees" or "solstice embraces" or "cool yule evenin' swings" or "kooky kwanzaa spectaculars" or even some "Christmas party" ones.
As of this writing, there are thirty-five days until the mall Santas once again get temporarily terminated and local radio stations have to shelve their "24/7 Elmo, Patsy, and The Boston Pops Marathons."
And I'm looking at one hundred and eighty-seven envelopes. I may just stay right here with Cyd and the Saint Bernard. Until the K9 cask seems funny again.

(This presentation includes photographs of Katharine Hepburn and Cyd Charisse and a Saint Bernard.)


Chuck said...

OK. Sad to say that until this moment I didn't know the person named Cyd Charisse. Whenever I heard the name I assumed that he was a Catskills comedian.

PJ said...

That was New Bedford comic "Sid Chouriço."