is the season to be Jolly. Or not. It all depends on how you feel about Yuletide glee. This year I took the “r” out of spirit, leaving “spiit,” which is basically misspelled saliva. But somehow Holiday Spiit doesn’t seem worth celebrating.
I’m not depressed. I’m too damned busy too feel anything. When I’m not cooking, cleaning, attending a party (or seven), I’m wracking my brain for gift ideas and making mental lists of who gets cookies, who gets cash, and who gets plastic crap from China (wrapped in shiny paper). After that, I start worrying about the Texas-sized landfill of junk floating in the Pacific Ocean and I kick myself for using shiny paper and for buying that plastic crap from China (curse you, Lego-makers). Once I stop worrying about my carbon footprint, I move on to fretting about the disappointment my five-year-old faces on Christmas morning.
He wants three things:
- A puppy.
- A fairy that grants him wishes.
- Man boobs.
I wish I were kidding. He won’t receive any of the aforementioned baubles. Hell hath no fury like a Santa-scorned five-year-old. I’m scared.
Note: Special thanks to Dav Pilkey, the author of the “Captain Underpants” children’s books series. Dav (no “e”), if you’re reading, and I hope you are, you and your inappropriate literature will save my seven-year-old from his own Christmas disappointment. The potty humor-inspired joy he’ll emit on the morning of Dec. 25 might well be our holiday silver lining. (Did I mention we’ll all be at Grandma’s fun but dysfunctional house?).
Me depressed? Not a chance. I’m just anxious and stressed and dreading flying through time zones. I want to curl up in bed with Jennifer Aniston and cake. I mean, Jennifer Aniston in “Cake” (someone please give me an Oscar screener).
But I can’t. I have to trudge through the Holiday muck for my children.
Though the wine and gingerbread will help, they won’t be enough. That’s why I visited the Mayo Clinic (website). Those people sure know what they are doing.
Please enjoy my psycho-intervention holiday remedies served up with a side of Mayo (Clinic).
Oh, the Mayo Clinic recommendations are in bold; my therapeutic responses are not.
Acknowledge your feelings
I want to be Muslim next year. There, I said it.
Reach out
Check. Dav Pilkey? Anyone?
Be realistic
I could get Nico those breastfeeding man boobs. But do I really want to fork over the shipping and handling?
Set aside differences
But if my mother and I don’t argue, we might get bored, and if we get bored we might overeat. And if we overeat we might gain weight, and well, I’d rather be skinny than happy.
Stick to a budget
Can I really afford to fork over the shipping and handling for the Mr. Milker?
Plan ahead
For the apocalypse?
Learn to say no
I have. Just ask my husband.
Take a breather
Is that like a Breathalyzer? Because I don’t need that. Chances are I’ll survive the holidays with a slight buzz. But I’m not getting behind the wheel.
Seek professional help if you need it
My shrink is going to be so psyched to see me in January. Seriously, she thinks I’m awesome.
All that out of the way, I have one more recommendation: whatever holidays you celebrate, make sure you celebrate them well and happily.
