I saw that ghost lady in the laundromat last week again. The one that pushes around a shopping cart with a sick cat in a cardboard box. Although no one sees her, she's hard to miss. She smells like shit and urine-soaked blankets, and her shopping cart smells like stale beer and soda cans. I'd bet she's not looking forward to Christmas. Maybe the beer cans she collected will gross enough loose change from the recycling center for her to buy a new pair of secondhand shoes from the Goodwill. And those feet, oh lord, those feet. Her bloated, cracked, bloody feet. The laundromat employees always kick her out with the same sneer on their faces as they point, like robotic apes, at the tattered wall sign, "No Loitering in the Laundromat!" It's right next to the picture of a fat, rosy-cheeked Santa saying "Ho ho ho!" Yeah. Ho fuckin' ho.

One Christmas a few years back I went grocery shopping to fix Christmas dinner for the folks. An emaciated homeless man sat in front of the store, dirt caked in the creases of his leathery sun-baked skin. He looked so weak; one of his legs crossed over another as if he were a limp, folding skeleton. (I wondered how he survived; I mean, come on -- this is Southern California for crying out loud! If the "Big One" hits, we fret about how we'll save our china collection or fancy audio/video equipment from destruction. I wondered, though, what this penniless soul would do. Would he thank God that his existence was soon to meet a merciful demise or would he beg for salvation as do all the other damn homeless losers that eat up our tax dollars?) He didn't have the strength to walk away from his spot to look for a job. . . he barely had enough strength to hold his hand-scrawled sign that read, "Will Work For Food. God Bless." Looking the other way, I resumed my grocery expedition with a serious determination to purchase hoards of holiday goodies. While passing the in-store delicatessen, though, I noticed small hot baked chickens for three dollars each. Damn! I was spending five seventy-five on chocolate biscotti, which was supposed to be a superb after-dinner snack (but it was really nothing more than a dried up loaf of bread made without enough yeast and too much sugar) when here was a fully cooked, wholesome meal for nearly half the price of stale bread. I bought one of the small, golden baked chickens and gave it to the homeless man outside. He grasped my hand and thanked me; it was like being groped by a delicate, tissue wrapped skeleton. I told him he was welcome and, after looking at his severely lined cheeks, I asked him his name. "Felipe", he replied. He asked God to bless me and looked at the chicken like it was more valuable than a pot of gold. His expression of utter rapture made that Christmas the best holiday season I have ever had.

There are experts on the social problem of homelessness who will swear and testify that giving money to a homeless person may be more harmful than helpful. They say that cash given to a street derelict often goes to the purchase of alcohol or drugs. And there are scam artists who panhandle for a living, claiming that they are blind and that they have four children to raise, two are missing limbs due to some eclectic genetic disorder, and one is a deaf-mute. But I wasn't giving Felipe, my homeless man, any money and I didn't think he was going to sell his chicken for any crack or Absolut. I honestly thought he was going to eat that bird. And on that day, I vowed to join the crusade to save the homeless from their plight.

Yeah, right. I was overcome by a great sense of goodwill for no less than an hour, and then I returned to the real world. What if Aunt Sue hates the jingle bell earrings I got for her? I mean, they were just a little tacky, but Christ! They were from Saks -- what more could the God forsaken hag ask for? Or what if my brother-in-law makes fun of me for getting him another tie this year? I remembered that horrible fight with my sister Ann this past summer and didn't think she'd forgive me just because I bought her an expensive gift. I didn't want to be cheap or unseemly, but I sure couldn't afford to be too extravagant. Not with my paltry income -- I hardly made enough to pay for three personal trainer meetings per month -- come on! What did these people expect? I wanted to have some hair left on my head for Christmas dinner before I pulled it all out from gift-buying stress. What should I do? Maybe a sappy Christmas movie would cheer me up. "It's A Wonderful Life" would put me right back into the holiday spirit; or maybe I could find a seasonal "Miracle on 34th Street" or "A Christmas Carol" repeat on some obscure TV wavelength. Please. The gossamer hustle and bustle of Christmas are anything but a time of miracles or wonderful lives. Everyone knows that. (Or do they?)

When I was a kid, Christmas really did seem like a magical time. I snuck around under the plastic tree strewn with gaudy lights and stale popcorn trying to see through the thin gift-wrap on the presents that bore my name . . . and through the same gift-wrap on my brother and sister's presents to see if their gifts were better than mine. When I accidentally ripped the paper, I would get hollered at and my behind would get smacked. I yelled and screamed at my parents for not getting the cool Lego set they knew I wanted. They got me that stupid Barbie doll that made me feel ashamed to be a girl. What child in their right mind could have any fun playing with a damned plastic anorexic snoot? And it was my parents that I got mad at -- I was too smart to believe in Santa Claus. Yeah. That's some really potent magic, alright.

But the real spirit of Christmas comes on the 26th. When the stress is over and the gifts are given. When the useful gifts received are separated from the gifts to give to someone else next year. When I can put up my feet in front of the TV, sipping hot cocoa spiked with Kahlua that Mary from the Marketing department gave to my boss (who doesn't drink so he passed it on to me, but, he professed, it was a nice ass-kissing gesture anyway). I don't have to worry about beating the holiday shopping crowd again and all the bullshit that accompanies Christmas until next year. Thank goodness. Life goes back to normal. You know what I'm talking about when I describe that big sigh of relief. Peace creeps back into everyone's lives. I can call the folks and reminisce about the great Christmas cranberry sauce and wonderful smoked turkey that Uncle Bob roasted with real cedar chips. (Nobody mentions the fight that Mom had with Auntie Sue after too much holiday punch -- we conveniently edit our memories and remember only the good holiday experiences.)

These thoughts encompass much of what Christmas has always meant to me. Nothing magical; just the simple reflection of the hectic holidays, the nostalgic longing coupled with the dread of the next Christmas season. But Christmas isn't really all that bad; after all, it gives me something to anticipate. It offers excitement to my mundane and sometimes dreary existence. Instead of coming home and having my traditional vodka-on-the-rocks-to-soothe-my-nerves drink, I have an excuse to get out of the house and grumble about holiday crowds that only gather once a year.

All joking aside, the really important part about Christmas is realizing that it doesn't mean the same thing for the shopping cart ghost lady or the skinny bum with the chicken who so graciously blessed me. For some people, Christmas is a time to cherish life. For others, however, it is a time to mourn that they are still alive.