Peace on Earth Good Will Toward Men, Even the Ones Who Don't Call When They Say They Will

It’s holiday time again. I look forward to baking dozens of sugar cookies and learning how to ice them with that thick, cool icing that women who read Martha’s magazine do. I will await the delivery of my fresh pine wreath, resplendent with its traditional satin red bow. I love that wreath so much that I often leave it up until March. And then I sweep the hallway clear of dead needles until the Christmas rolls around again. I will smother any bitterness I feel during the drudgery that is writing holiday cards, instead remembering that I am sharing the love and joy of the holiday season with those I care about most. Don’t feel badly if you don’t receive one. I just care about you medium.

I vow to smile at children and not kick them as they get loose from the mall Santa line, running into me in my three-inch heel boots as I attempt to balance a tray of Taco Bell burritos. I will sing along to Madonna’s Santa Baby, even though we all know the sound of her cutesy, boopy voice can curdle milk. I will curb the urge to fling my window scraper at the overzealous neighbor who greets me at the wrong decibel when my car door has frozen shut. I will not freak out, will not yell and tug at my spare flesh tire, when I gain 10 pounds as the result of eating a box of Triscuits and a can of easy cheese, a saucepan full of Stove Top stuffing, and whatever butter is left in the fridge. At 3 am. Just because. I will not jump out of my car and pummel the guy in front of me because he thinks one should brake every three seconds when it’s snowing. I will be immersed in love and joy. Fa la la la la.

I will get into the spirit of the freaking holidays if I have to glue mistletoe to my dry, flaking forehead. I will share my joy with my offspring, super glueing bows to their heads and making them pose for family photos to be plastered on a soon-to-be-gifted mug or calendar. I will then soothe the resulting scratches with a cinnamon and pumpkin pie paste, sure to bring the scent of the season to all in my midst. I will stifle frustration when the irritating Salvation Army ringer asks me for a donation when I already gave on the trip inside. Five minutes prior. AM I NOT AT ALL MEMORABLE? I will smile and agree to her infinite cuteness when a beaming parent tells me about her child playing Mary in the Christmas Eve service, and will ask myself if no one cares that Mary had no sex, like, for life. I will continue driving, and will not further contemplate breaking down the damn door, when I attempt to drown a family evening with Pinot Noir and my corner store has closed early due to what at least one of my friends calls “increment weather.” I will not berate the televised yule log that burns for no one in particular. I am going to enjoy these holidays, come hell, high water or those freaking door-to-door carolers that we’re all too nice to send the way of the Mormons. Oh I will be joyous. Dammit.