The 21st century was just starting its second decade, and things were running as they should in my life. I started high school, got one of many not great perms, and due to hormonal mood swings groaned at the thought of spending time with my family decorating the house. Times were unextraordinary in my life. Then Christmas of 2011 happened.
Across from the pots of poinsettias lining the living room steps and The Nutcracker themed arrangement on our mantle, past the Christmas tree topped with our optic fiber flared angel and a few steps away from our coffee table decked out in all of the Charlie Brown Christmas merchandise Hallmark had to offer was a small basket. A basket too small to carry a CD held fifteen Christmas music CDs crammed and stacked on top of each other. Every family member had their favorites. Being a collector of the Now That's What I Call Music! series, I always got excited to play Now That's What I Call Christmas! Vol. 3 (if you haven't listened to Relient K's cover of the 12 Days of Christmas, do it. now). Both of my sisters enjoyed the Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack, and my dad fancied Kenny G's Miracles Christmas album. My mom had plenty of favorites, from Dean Martin to Barbara Streisand, but in 2011, her heart belonged to Bublé.
In 2011, the youngish singer I categorized with the likes of Gavin DeGraw and other white dudes who nabbed one mainstream hit that year released a Christmas album that swept women off their feet, my mom included.
Their love started as innocent as ever, after passing a glance at his glistening album cover in a Target, my mom figured, why not? I was with her that day, and I also figured, why not?, a thought I regret thinking to this day.
She played the CD during the car ride home.
"Oh, he's pretty good!" She said.
We got home, and my mom ejected the CD only to put it in our dinky living room stereo system, and I heard it in its entirety, from 'Jingle Bells' to 'Santa Baby' (only he replaces 'baby' with 'buddy' in the ultimate no homo move), to the 'Ave Maria' my mom wasn't a fan of because he's not Andrea Bocelli or Josh Groban, to the five second holiday message from Bublé that tops off the album.
I heard it again after dinner one night and on the way to the grocery store and on the way to Christmas Eve mass and on the way to our aunt's house Christmas Day. I remember once after school I walked in my house with a friend only to hear Bublé's caramel smooth voice say "Merry Christmas, Ladies." followed by "Merry Christmas, Mr. Bublé!" from the Puppini Sisters. My friend got more amusement from the comically coincidental timing while I took a deep breath, knowing 'Jingle Bells' was only the third track out of sixteen.
It became a gag of a few friends to give me shit everytime we heard Bublé in the car or a restaurant or a department store because I made sure to express my annoyance whenever I heard it somewhere that wasn't home. This continued through college too. Whatever local station played his duet cover with Shania Twain of 'White Christmas' was out to spite me, definitely. Even when I came home for the holidays, "Merry Christmas Mr. Bublé!" greeted me before my parents did.
I live on my own now, so the Bublé exposure has definitely decreased. Still, I hold a small soft spot for the Bublé bonanza that took place every Christmas since 2011 at home. You get to watch your parent find joy in the happy, commercial things. You get to learn that sometimes it's okay to indulge yourself in the commercialization of Christmas, because life is hard and fleeting and sometimes the little things are all you have. Be grateful for what you have and all that feel-good nonsense.
Maybe that will hold more true to me when I begin to cherish the latest of Christmas song traditions in my family: my twin sisters improvising and meme-ifying every Christmas song that comes on the radio, from "O Come All Yeet Faithful" to "Big Boi Comin' To Town."
Now I almost hope my mom goes back to Bublé. Almost.