*I grew up an only child. It made me independent, and bossy. It's no surprise I enjoyed telling my parent's what to do. I loved Christmas and decorating the tree. In October, I
would be begging my mom to let me put it up.
“Not yet!” she would yell at me as I pestered her while trying on my
Halloween costume.
Early November I would still be asking her, ”mom, when can I put up the
tree?”
“I said not yet, stop bothering me,” her
cigarette ashes falling in the pot, a little extra flavor for that cheeseburger
Hamburger Helper.
It would yell and pout. I wanted to put up that damn tree. I was
8-years-old; my life depended on it.
“Can’t we put up the tree now? Mom, please!” I said as she hacked three
large sized slices of Pumpkin pie on plates. I stared as whipped milk and sugar
made love on the pie. Seconds later an eruption went over the crust like snow
down a mountain. It was a calorie landslide and man, was I skiing.
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“Please?”
“No!”
“Please, mom?”
“I said no!”
“Please!”
“God damn it, Hudson, do we have to get your hearing checked? No!”
Finally, by December 1st, I wore her down when I kept interrupting her TV
experience, “Charles In Charge”.
“Go get the freaking lights already.”
I thanked her with a giggle and ran until I got to the hall closet,
throwing things about until I found lights and bulbs begging for my attention. I
bundled all the little boxes in my hands and ran into the living room, the
closet left behind looked like a tornado had been through it.
“We have to set up the tree first and then we can decorate.” my mom
said, a white box hitting the floor with a thud and green fakery peaking out of
the top.
When I become a rich actor one day I will have my maids and butlers set
up my tree and it won’t be a fake misshapen green thing like this either, no.
It will be a real tree, from a forest or mountain, big, green and beautiful.
There will be smell of pine and not the smell of an old person when I stand it
up. It will be so tall it will hit the ceiling and I will have to stand on a
damn ladder to decorate the thing. Regular bulbs from K-mart will not do for my
tree, oh no. Faberge eggs will adorn it only, thank you very much, with real
14-no 18 carat gold ribbons. People will “oh” and “ah” as they come by my
window, looking at my tree in amazement. I would not care to notice the gawkers as
I come out on my balcony and act surprised that everyone was there.
As my mom put up the tree I watched her bitch and moan. Plastic limbs
being pushed and shoved like some sale-whore shopping for bargains on Black
Friday. Finally it was erect, green and tall.
Would this year be different? Would I get my Farrah Fawcett-Majors doll
that I requested? I would be so happy if they surprised me with the gold lame’
outfit set as well, which was sold separately. I know Farrah would look great
in it, plus it would fit my Cher, Toni Tennille and Diana Ross dolls.
My father was disgusted with my mom for buying me a Cher doll.
“That boy needs to be into sports
and…dirt. Boy things.”
I prayed his attitude would not defer her from making future gender
defying purchases. Damn them all to hell if I got another truck.
“You can’t braid a truck’s hair!” I wanted to shout at my Father.
I did enjoy The G.I Joe doll but soon lost interest because I could not
style his plastic hair. For some reason he always laid around Barbie’s dream
house, muscular and naked on her plastic bed, waiting for her like a good man
should.
My mom was great at giving me what I wanted and my father was great at
complaining that I was not acting like a boy, a real boy. What was I to him
anyway, freaking Pinocchio?
Now it
was time to decorate. Bulbs thrown on different branches; cross eyed angels
hung by their backs; tinsel, in all its tacky silver glory. The tree slumped
with decorations-maybe too many decorations.
My dad walked into the living room, eating cereal out of a box in his
underwear.
“Looks like a fairy threw up in here!” He said before leaving.
Finally, I was almost finished
and mom wanted to start dinner but the star was left to be put on the tree and
I couldn’t wait for her. I followed her into the kitchen.
“C’mon mom, I want to finish it,” I said.
“I have to slave over the stove,” she barked, tearing open 3 boxes of
Swanson’s Salisbury steak TV dinner. I walked hard on the floor until I made it
back into the living room.
I sat there, pouting, looking at the wonderful tree with its glittering
sheen and assortment of gold, red, silver and green. The big silver star sat in
its crumpled box, waiting to shine as the pimp of the tree.
Damn my mother, I thought, what does she know? She wears white after
Labor day. I guess I will just sit here and stare at the four walls until she
gets ready to help me. Only if I was on my own and had a funky apartment; I
could do anything that I wanted to do and not rely on other people telling
where and when I had to do something; I could eat a jar of Fluff for dinner if
I so desired.
“I hate being a child. I can’t wait to be a grown-up and be on my own.” I said out loud to the tree.
On my tiptoes I went over to the star’s box and opened it quietly, cord
hitting the floor. I moved a sofa chair over to the left of the tree and
climbed on the chair with the star. After a few minutes of adjustments I made
the star sit comfortably; like a nympho on top of a sailor. It was
happy. It was gorgeous. It lasted one minute as the tree fell over to the
right.
Bulbs broke in tiny little pieces; the floor a twisted mess of glitter
and glass; wings of angels separated by force. Poor Mrs. Claus looked like a
gang of hostile teenagers from South Central Los Angeles had jacked her up.
There Santa was, face down but still smiling with a candy cane up his
north pole.
“What the hell—Hudson!” my mom bellowed, her thick legs making sounds on
the floor. She tried to pick up the tree but it soon fell on top of her.
"OH Lord!"
“I tried to put the star on,” I answered, trying to hold up the tree so she could roll out from under it. When my mom got to her feet she was a mess of glitter and pieces of broken glass.
“You ruined Christmas!”
“Please, I’m not a child, there is no Santa Claus.” I said, trying to
hold my smirk.
“Whoever told you that is a spoiled sport!” she said, anger rising like
water in a teakettle.
*Taken from There's A Bastard A Bastard Born Every Minute by Hudson Taylor copyright 2016
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His pictures weren’t blurry, looked old or had more
retouching than a photo of Oprah Winfrey on her magazine. I was psyched for our
first date until I turned the corner of west 10th street. My lover
boy had a high bun on the back of his head that reminded me of Mrs. Garrett
from The Facts Of Life TV show. To say I was turned off would have been an understatement.
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The lights were low at my place and we started to get busy as
belts and shirts flew off. Instead of a body to die for I was confronted with a
bric-a-brac of ugly tattoos. Here is some advice to people out there that put
children or old people’s faces on their body; one does not want to stare at Grandma
Mitzi’s overbite or look at the puss on little Mary-Lou when you’re trying to
have sex.
Listen, when tattoos are done well, they are hot, but when
they are spelled wrong; have faces that would scare a mortician, or seems like their
body looks like the wall at a rundown tattoo pallor; total turnoff. I wish
people would be sober when they got a lot of these ugly tattoos; the world
would be a prettier place. 
6. Hawaii; I guess that’s why the Hawaiian dancers are
always moving so fast; must be in pain.
15. Virginia; yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and he is
hung like a horse. 
