Happy Day After Thanksgivi- Oh. Oh, ginger snap.
I’ve just been told that we’ve experienced a few snows, it’s no longer November, and apparently the anniversary of Jesus H. Christ’s birth is this week. There is a surprise fiesta of colorful twinkle lights draped across an artificial tree in my living room, and a toddler I think belongs to me is watching cartoon Mickey Mouse select a sled as his mouseketool of choice. Envelopes stacked high atop the kitchen table hold glittery greetings from bloggers and relatives, somebody’s coworker or aunt or hairstylist’s plumber. My neighbor’s sweater vests are suddenly more green and red and inclusive of crotched reindeer and mini jingle bells. I am alarmed to find hundreds of perkies announcing their love of Peppermint Mocha on Facebook. Even my dog is perky and I can’t help but conspiracy theorize that she’s been wag-wagging her tail to the inaudible chorus of “Here Comes Santa Claus”. Quite frankly, there is a lot of fa-la-la-ing, and I’m still scanning the fridge for leftover turkey.
I consult with a friend who informs me that much like *Peter Gallagher I have wild eyebrows typically found on . More importantly, like Peter Gallagher I seemed to have slept through all the good parts, waking in just enough time to rub my bodacious brow and holler “What The Frankincense?!?”. Unlike Sir Peter’s character in While You Were Sleeping, my sudden exit from reality wasn’t caused my a freak fall on train tracks, a homely Sandra Bullock didn’t rescue me, and Bill Pullman wasn’t putting the moves on my man while I was comatose. Substitute pneumonia for train tracks, the emergency room staff at Jackson General Hospital for a homely Sandra Bullock, and that flirty Starbucks barista for Bill Pullman, and the analogy is spot on, you see?
While Peter Gallagher was sleeping, it becomes clear that he is an awful, womanizing, superficial money flasher. Much the same, I am a horrible person prone to mocking most living things, I am often too friendly with homeless men when I’m tossing them quarters, and would surely flash my hefty coin purse if I hadn’t made a habit of seeking out so many homeless men. Despite his flaws, Pedro awakes to a room of family, friends, and faux fiance all willing to let heinous personality flaws be bygones. Just past the holiday season without their not-so-loved-one, they rejoice in the fact that, despite his general badness, Peter Gallagher didn’t die. I’ve often been reminded by relatives that one can be despised without having death wished upon her. But the timing- oh, the timing!- of my return to reality is so dangerously ahead of Christmas, and this is where I scrunch a Gallagher-esque brow and wonder if comparing myself to a coma patient with striking man beauty might be missing the mark. He did, after all, have the sense to stay so blissfully asleep until after gift-giving duty passed.
Just a few days to get in the holiday spirit and put my money where my love is, I’ve paced every crowded store aisle in town. While focused shoppers dart and swerve, pluck and pay precisely for items on their lists, I’m standing in the laundry detergent department, blinking and shaking my head. Sometimes you take just enough medication to wonder if you are Bill Cosby in Ghost Dad… or Peter “Son of a Brow” Gallagher in While You Were Sleeping. I left each store in a daze, asking my toddler “Who are you?” and wondering if he might just learn to speak and say “Homely Sandra Bullock pretending to be your soul mate, dumb ass”. As I’ve maneuvered a vehicle that a few prescription bottles told me not to, I flee from the shopping, from the money-for-love transactions of holiday past, from the feeling that I need to get from deathbed to dressed-in-sweater-vest-with-jingly-bells so quickly. I went home gift-less. I went home dedicated to having a very Peter Gallagher Christmas.
To prepare for such a festive holiday, I winked at the mail man before heading indoors to gel my eyebrows. I stared in the mirror with luscious pouty lips, ran a hand smoothly across my voluminous hair, darker than the night Jesus was born. I winked and smiled slyly. Quite impressed with myself, I wondered if that star those wise dudes followed was even half as bright as my teeth. Ah! There. I felt all warm and prickish and filled with the Gallagher spirit. I sat down to put into **words my holiday scene from While I Wasn’t So Much Sleeping But Totally Feeling Icky With The Black Lung.
Dear friends, this year you might notice a distinct lack of gift from me this holiday season. As you well know I am loaded. You have probably been around when I’ve sought out strangers- some homeless, most not- and shoved whole dollars worth of shiny coins in their pockets. Christmas is about mas Christ (more Christ, idiot), and Christ is about honesty, so I just thought you should know. You’re not getting a present from me even though I totally afford it. No, this year, dearest dears, my gift to you is ***ME! I’m alive, and I’m pretty sure that’s the greatest gift you could ask for.
A Very Peter Gallagher Christmas to you & yours,
So, maybe the response wasn’t as ecstatic as I’d expected. Maybe a very Peter Gallagher Christmas just wasn’t meant to be.
Maybe PETER GALLAGHER IS JEWISH.
There’s always next year, and a very Kardashian Kristmas might just be worth a try.
*Turns out Peter Gallagher’s performance in While You Were Sleeping was purely scripted. He may or may not be a jerk. According to, you know, truth and facts and stuff, he celebrates Hanukkah once a year, but his eyebrows? Well, he celebrates those every day.
** Also fictional was Gallagher’s caring and amazingly loving family who celebrated his healthy return despite his former lifetime of douchedom. Should you celebrate a very Peter Gallagher Christmas please know your loved ones will mostly un-friend you on Facebook, un-love you in life, and with sad-yet-comedic irony, return your holiday “un-gift” with a death threat.
***My eyebrows are SERIOUS. This post? Not so much.