The War on Christmas

The cat doesn't care about Christmas

The war on Christmas?

No, the war on me.

 It’s July and dark days approach. Plastic Christmas trees already.
Outside, a blazing 115 degrees.
Yet, synthetic pine wears a mantel of pretend chemical snow.
I shudder and turn away from the conflict to come.

By August, the skeletons of Halloween appear. The shells of dead people cheer me.
But the Santa demons with blank eyes lurk in the back store shelves. They await Halloween’s demise, ready to induce a retail frenzy of mindless manic mayhem. I dodge a whizzing bullet.

 The store ads hatch out of their rotten, stinking corporate lairs in September. Not daring to fully emerge, but enough to hint of the chaos to come. Dread creeps into my mind. Random firefight.

Mindless, droning, torturous Christmas music seeps out; a cancer on my brain. Only October, but skulls give way to over-priced strings of holiday lights. I mourn the end of Halloween knowing the nightmare begins. I retreat to the trenches.

Outdoor decorations appear on homes, though it’s not yet Thanksgiving. What the hell is wrong with you? I fight the urge to punch cutesy blow-up figures. Vile Santas and reindeer; elves in helicopters.

PLEASE, NO! Already war weary.

Full on December assault. Inattentive drivers  fill the streets, shopping, shopping, shopping. Horrid music invades every public space. Jingle Bells–stab my eyes out. My mood sinks lower. Vapid ads everywhere for cars, flooring, clothes, electronics, food, candy, perfume, booze....IT NEVER ENDS.

All the F**KING CHEER. I fake enthusiasm and put up a tree. Wait for the end of the battle.

Finally, it stops. Blessed calm. Peace.

Then the post war sales begin.

Jingle Blahs

No. Just no.

Christmas depression
isn’t just an expression.
All the damn cheer
drives me to drink beer.

The torture started in October.
Christmas decorations lurk.
Plastic Santas smirk
behind Halloween skeleton dogs.

The autumn slaughter of pine trees had already begun.
Happily green; growing, unaware of their impeding death.
Their fate to be displayed in an ugly mall.
Only to be dumped once holiday fun
was done.

Christmas carols make me want to heave.
Jingle Bells
ring in holiday hell.
A White Christmas. . .
I’m dreaming
of never hearing it again.
Deck the Halls. . .
I avoid the malls.

I dread
to go to parties
and pretend to be hearty.
When I secretly
long to go home
and crawl into bed
Crowds are too loud.
Nothing of interest is said

The yard lights are pretty.
But not for myself.
Thanksgiving is way too soon
to see the giant blow-up elf.
It makes me swoon
with its moronity.

So Christmas,
please leave.
And with you take
dreadful New Year’s Eve.

THE CHRISTMAS BEAST

In October it slithers in early.
I am appalled to see in stores the garlanded horror of
Santas that menace
the gentler, less scary skeletal Halloween.

In November the monster is unleashed.House-eating lights blaze and twinkle.
Quickly they appear and then disappear slowly, sometimes not at all.
Vacantly leer the grinning blow up snowmen, who spring up,
then mysteriously collapse in
daylight, like slaughtered zombie sub-humans;
only to arise again to haunt the evening.

Pine trees are killed, put up in houses,
decorated, then
 tossed in the trash afterwards. 

 Shiny ornaments and lights distract from

 tree death or plastic fakery.

 I drag my tree out from its dirty garage home  and resurrect it.

Unenthusiastically I dig out the lights and decorations to put on it.

I have been conditioned to do this.

Newspapers, radio, television exhort the willing masses to buy, buy, buy,
jewelry, perfume, cars, mattresses, clothes, phones, IPads, IPods, computers, games, toys, DVD’s, TV’s...
You are not loved unless you give or receive these items.
I want to live on a deserted island until January.

This folly is accompanied by music of the worst kind-
water boarding sappy tunes and cheesy lyrics that play
over and over; often degraded to hawk
the jewelry, perfume, cars, mattresses, clothes, phones, IPads, IPods, computers, games, toys, DVD’s, TV’s...
This torture wears the prey down for easier consumption.
I want to scream for it to stop.

December is a mega-tsunami of holiday hell.

Victims are fattened on booze, cookies, candy and fruitcake.

They voluntarily gather with their friends
and only reluctantly with their families.

The beast is hungry.

Finally, it feeds, a Dionysian orgy of excess.
It swallows everything in its path
leaving a litter
of crumpled wrapping paper,
tattered ribbon and credit card bills.
I feel the void of emptiness it leaves.
It slithers off
until next Halloween.

Christmas Affect Disorder

I can’t take the emotional baggage of Christmas. All the years of rituals and feelings of every Christmas I have ever had weigh me down. The expectations of joy and the inevitable let-downs hang around like ghosts, that come back year after year. I have whined about Christmas before in this blog, detailing my bad attitude about the holiday, my hatred of Christmas music and the illusion of happiness that mocks me. Last year, I got through it all relatively unscathed, but this year was different because my daughter Melissa wasn’t around.

Most of December was bearable. I had very little shopping to do, which meant no agonizing about what to get people, when I didn’t have a clue want they wanted. I didn’t put up a tree because no one else was around to see it; if it wasn’t put up, then it wouldn’t have to be taken down. The Christmas lights stayed in the box because it was too much effort to untangle them, get out a ladder, and string them up. I put up a wreath and decorated the mantel and that was it. I didn’t bake any cookies, just corn bread and tea bread for parties. I went to two great parties and felt good for a while.

I accepted the fact that I didn’t have family to visit, unlike most of the rest of the world. My parents and sister are all deceased and my daughter is in Washington, D.C. Families are over-rated anyway. Most of the time they are boring as hell and disrupt one’s routine. Sometimes a relative cracks and shoots everyone. Guns and Christmas are a bad combination. I briefly thought of visiting my sister-in-law in South Carolina, but the air fare was ridiculous and I hate traveling during the holidays.

I detest crowded airports and the weather is usually terrible between where you fly from and where you are going. I thought of taking a ski trip, but the lifts are crowded this time of the year. I would spent more time in line than skiing.

I should have avoided Facebook. All those people bragging about how wonderful their lives are, what a good time they are having, and all the family, friends and parties is depressing. All that damn cheeriness. My life doesn’t live up to this standard. Of course the people who are not having a great time aren’t posting about it. I could bitch about the holidays, but then I would be considered to be negative, which most people consider to be a major character flaw. If I can’t be positive all the time, then there must be something wrong with me. It’s not acceptable to hate Christmas.

I planned the hell out of December. I went to four parties, went to a movie on Christmas with a friend, volunteered at Desert Botanical Garden three times, trained for a marathon, saw a therapist, did a 30k race, and went to the Nutcracker Ballet. It wasn’t enough to stave off the holiday blues.

Maybe it’s the short days and I have Seasonal Affect Disorder. December should be called my Christmas Affect Disorder. Maybe it’s because I sleep an extra hour a day because it’s dark at seven o’clock and who the hell wants to get up anyway? It could be all the fat laden sugary treats that I can’t avoid because it’s there, it’s good and I am hungry. Every party has wine and I have to have at least one glass. Food that’s bad for me and booze is not good for my state of mind. At least not later on, when I get on the scale and find out I am wearing the extra calories.

I am glad that the holidays are over and I can get back to my regular depression. The Halls can get undecked, the Bells can stop jingling and the Chestnuts can stop roasting.