Another three or four days and it'll all be over, won't it?
Come Monday, we will be back to near normal, if we choose to ignore the Battle of Boxing Day.
No mention in the scriptures of Mary and Joseph venturing out to the Jerusalem Wal-Mart to pick up some disposables for the new baby, or the Three Wise Men hitting Zellers for the Frankincense and Myrrh 50 per cent off sale.
It really is quite pitiful to watch people rush into the store, like blitzing NFL linebackers, to scoop up the bargains: such satisfaction from saving a few bucks.
Why don't we just eliminate Christmas altogether and go right to Boxing Day? We could give weapons to shoppers and turn it into a reality TV show, The Savers, not to be confused with the The Saviour.
I'm certainly not going to miss the mall migraines, the parking-lot punch-ups, the credit card catatonia. I may have fond memories of the Lamb's Navy, however, which was my stresso-meter for the holidays: the more stressed I became, the lower the level of the brown elixir.
In past years, I went through three or four bottles. This year, just the one dead Lamb.
It was easy: I bought all my gifts locally, unless you count the mixed nuts I bought in Mission one night for my annual viewing of A Christmas Carol.
No more Jimmy Stewart for me, after repeated screenings of It's A Wonderful Life over the years, and its sequel, Count Your Blessings, wherein the Bailey children fall into drugs and prostitution before seeing the light in the form of that annoying angel that stopped old George from stepping off the bridge.
Christmas, the season, isn't quite the same for me as it was when I was a child growing up in Ontario.
There is no snow here, you see, and consequently no road hockey, no outdoor skating, no opportunities to make a few bucks shoveling old Mrs. Campbell's sidewalk, money that I would tuck into my mittens for the walk uptown, my snow shoes crunching underfoot, the warm glow of the light coming from the houses along the way, the main street awash with decorations and music.
I did all my shopping in three or four stores: sporting goods, hardware, clothing.
It was magical, and I'm not going to try and relive it by going up into the mountains or visiting the relatives who live in snowier climes. Matter of fact, I don't even like snow that much anymore.
And no grandchildren to spoil, thanks to my selfish daughter who would rather stay in school than procreate.
So, I play the Scrooge, the unredeemed version, or would it were not for Tiny Tim, a.k.a. the Angel Andrew, my forever young son, who glories in the day, any day, and loves to open gifts and eat turkey and watch that big train come into the station, as it did last Saturday with Valdy on board.
For youngsters who don't know Valdy, that's no surprise: he must be older than Christ. A 1970s era folksinger (Play Me a Rock and Roll Song, etc.) from Saltspring Island who's sold about eight zillion albums and fits right in with all the aging rockers currently reinventing themselves, although Valdy never quit.
It was a chance for us boomers to relive our folk festival youth down by the Billy, without the long hair and the loco weed, of course.
So without further ado, I leave you with my best wishes for the non-denominational season, with a special salute to all those volunteers who work so hard during this time of the year to make sure everyone has a good Christmas or, at the very least, a meal - particularly, Tim Sarsfield and company over at the Sally Ann Caring Place, who may never wish to see another turkey once Christmas is over.
Someone please cue Jose Feliciano.