Alright, I confess: I’m a ‘Christmas-season-starts-November-1st’ kind of lady. You know the type. I already have a wreath on my door. I’ll be done shopping for everyone on my list by December 1st. That’s me. Yup, I’ve already got peppermints in my coffee table candy jar, All I Want for Christmas Is You is on repeat. And of course I’ve been calling my mom once a day to really blast her ass for shit she did to me as a kid.

I know it’s WAY too early to be drinking hot chocolate and screaming at my mom about how she waited way too long to get me a training bra. But I’m just such a sucker for the holiday season and everything that comes along with it: bright lights, a romantic chill in the air, robotically spiking a full glass of wine on the ground when mom asks whether or not I’m ‘even really trying’ to get married. I mean, who can wait until December for all that joy? Not me, that’s for sure.


Every year when the first week of November rolls around, I drag my carefully labeled boxes from the attic and transform my home into a winter wonderland. By November 7th there’s silver tinsel draped on every surface, cinnamon pinecones filling my home with the scent of the season – a neighbor once remarked that I should sell tickets just to view my front yard. And when the physical decorating is done I drag my emotional boxes from the basement of my heart and begin year-long blood feuds with every member of my immediate family, starting with my mom.

I simply cannot wait for Christmas day to get drunk and belligerent with my family! As soon as the last bite-sized Snickers is handed out on October 31st, I prepare to unload grief on my loved ones for the next 8 weeks. Boy oh boy do I love how the holidays allow us time and space to unleash new versions of the same old shit you’ve been working out in therapy for years.


Look, I get my holiday spirit can drive other people a little nuts – just yesterday my boyfriend was like “Enough Miracle on 34th Street! It’s only November 5th! And also, you really need to get over that one time your mom lost you in the Livingston Mall for 5 minutes. We have two months until Christmas, you’re going to run out of fights by then!”


I hate to say it but Dirk is wrong! Miracle on 34th Street never gets old. And I’ll never run out of minor psychological traumas I unfairly attribute to my mom. Really, who can get tired of Nat King Cole crooing The Christmas Song? Or gingerbread? Or me begging my mom to tell me why it was so fucking hard for her to just admit I was a talented dancer? What was she afraid of? That I wouldn’t finish school? Of course I was going to finish school but a scrap of approval, a drop of credit is all I EVER really wanted for Christmas from that woman. Would it have killed you to give me a hug after my recital and for once in your life acknowledge –

Ugh, there I go again! Getting carried away by the spirit of the season. So, apologies in advance if you’re not a holiday person. The next few weeks are going to be ‘pretty rough stuff’ a.k.a. what my mom called my senior poetry thesis. Merry Christmas!


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