Cash-only Christmas: Diary of a Cheapskate

It’s the most wonderful time of the year …!

Sorry. I can’t help myself. There’s something about this season that makes me want to burst into song. And by “this season,” I of course mean that intensely joyful period between Thanksgiving and Christmas which actually begins somewhere around mid-October.

All those presidential candidates whining about what’s wrong with America should just shut their mouths, as far as I’m concerned. The rest of the world would absolutely KILL for radio stations that play “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” on Columbus Day.

But try telling that to the naysayers who are convinced it’s a bad thing that the official start to the holiday shopping season—a.k.a “Black Friday”—has grown so big, it practically overshadows Thanksgiving. Don’t they know we still know what that holiday’s really all about: one great nation collectively stuffing its face, then furtively reaching to unbutton its pants under the table during dessert.

You’d think I’d side with the crankypants contingent, being as I’m such a cheapskate. On the contrary, I’m just like the most enthusiastic supporters of the ever-expanding holiday shopping season—with one teensy-weensy difference.

To them, it’s never too early to think about spending money during the holidays.

To me, it’s never too early to think about NOT spending money during the holidays.

As personal philosophies go, mine seems to bewilder people. Some actually compare me to Scrooge. Like that’s a bad thing.

And it’s total rubbish. For starters, I don’t own a counting house (I wish!). Nor am I haunted by a ghost from my past. Not unless you count the totally unfortunate shag haircut I got the summer every adolescent boy in America slapped a Farrah Fawcett poster on his wall, a “do” which appears in every single photo of me taken of me during high school.

Most important, unlike Scrooge, I have plenty of friends and family. I do not have to be shamed into doing well by them at Christmastime by the presence of a tiny tot teetering around on a cane and exclaiming “God bless us, everyone,” just because nobody happened to spit in his gruel. I give presents. I’m not made of stone. If my teen-aged niece wants to succumb to ridiculous peer pressure and sport fur-lined Uggs boots in sunny, eighty-five-degree California, well, who am I to deny her holiday wish? If my aging parents want a Roomba robotic vacuum so they don’t have to work quite so hard cleaning their house, well, destroy the shag hairdo photo archive and maybe we can talk.