Holidays are like hamsters

A lot of work and no shortage of mess and then they die. Fucking heartbreakers.

Once upon a time holidays meant much to me. Too much. I had high expectations for what were ultimately low returns (child of a woman who put little effort into gifts marries man who does same). There are plenty of good (bad) stories but perhaps the ultimate is the year I was handed a small jewelry case–the sort that would house a ring. When I opened it there was a gray cube made of plastic clay inside, crafted by our son Peter. ‘Surprise! You know that dishwasher we need?’ I wish I could say it was a joke.

Anyway, I’ve spent the last seven years in recovery, cold turkey-ing as it were from Holidays. This year took the cake though (wait, it’s coming). For my birthday, one of my kids and I synced up the Wizard of Oz from our respective abodes. And then we both got high, well, just because. It was…different, but A for effort.

My middle child turned 35 on the 21st, so I wrapped up some gifts and baked a cake (I still go through the motions), which I drove to Cambridge so that my youngest could take it all with him to Toledo. Well wouldn’t you know it, the first night Lily, the birthday boy’s dog, decided the cake was for her. Another A for effort.

Christmas. Oh Christmas. On the eve my friend Bill stopped by and we sat six feet apart on hard chairs in the kitchen and drank whiskey neat. It was festive and we broke the rules when we hugged goodbye.

Unfortunately that night I got up to vomit (side effect of my current drug regimen) and then started the day with diarrhea. I tried eating some figgy bread for breakfast but my body immediately admonished me for not paying attention.

So that was it until evening. Toasted semolina and bone broth for dinner and I also made some deviled eggs, inspired by a photo of her own beauties that my daughter posted on Facebook. And then I texted my sons for a suggestion as to a good movie to watch and ended up viewing Deadpool. On Christmas.

2020, you have disappointed me. Again, too much effort for too little return. Four more days, and we’re outta here.

I think I’ll drink fresh squeezed juice and find some baby lambs to pet on the first day of next year. Fresh start, y’all.

xo