Merry Fucking Christmas

I've tried for a day and a half to think of a different title for this post, but in all honesty, that's the only one that fits my feelings and opinions of this holiday season. I apologize to my readers who have delicate sensibilities. Stick a post-it over the screen and move on.

Every season I whine and complain about how much I hate Christmas, and every year, well-meaning friends and family give me advice on how to get over it and embrace the true meaning of Christmas. Well, let's see... I have no problem commemorating the birth of Christ, even though I may have a problem with what happened in the 2,000 or so years after he died, so that isn't the issue. I'm all for family togetherness, even though that doesn't actually seem to be all that prevalent during this blessed season. Red and green, although not my favorite color combination, don't immediately drive me into a blinding rage. True, I hate the commercialism (who doesn't); I'm making most of the gifts that I'm giving this year. (I don't think the yarn companies are complicit in the evil schemes to sell things at Christmastime. I won't think so. The new patterns that keep bombarding my email inbox are a total coincidence. "Ten best patterns for Christmas gifts! Hurry and buy now! You know you'll need a month to finish this sweater, honey!") I am annoyed by how catty and jealous family members can start to become. "What? But you promised to spend ALL of Christmas with US. We don't want to share you with the three other branches of your family!" As if the only family togetherness that matters on Christmas is their own. Everyone gets so damned stressed and grouchy. For me, it's already begun; my mom is flying up here to Seattle for Christmas, and I'm working out those details. Already it's required calls between family members, discussions about ethics, predictions of anger and blame, and pleas for preventive intervention. I'm really not cut out for this.

But here is my sad confession: when I think about what bothers me the most about Christmas, what steps forward to take center stage are the damn carols. That's right, the cheesy renditions of "Jingle Bell Rock" and Mariah Carey's unbearable "All I Want for Christmas" are what cause me the greatest anxiety. Ben and I went out for dinner the other night (Olivia in tow, yes) and they seated us right under a speaker. Normally I wouldn't have cared, but this speaker was BLARING the afore-mentioned putrescence at an intolerable volume. My skin started to crawl almost immediately, and I asked our server if they wouldn't mind turning it down a hair. "Oh, sorry hon, wish I could, but that control panel's in the office and no one has a key right now." Of course. My perfect husband arched an eyebrow, silently scanning me. "Can you stand it? Do we need to go?" his eyebrow asked. I was stoic and decided that instead of leaving, we'd have such a brilliant conversation that I wouldn't even notice the speakers. We ended up comparing the merits of cheesecake to the decadence of the brownie. Sadly enough, that did it for me. I was fine.

But really, how depressing is this? I'd probably make it through Christmas just fine if every speaker wasn't hijacked by awful music for a month and a half (minimum). I mean, what they're playing to begin with is usually pretty awful, but it's normally at a level where you can tune it out, and the themes vary: love lost, love gained, love unfaithful, love in the sexual sense, love in the sexual sense, love in.... well, yes. At least it's SOMETHING.

My usual compatriot in all things, even hating Christmas, is my grandmother. When the season started, I called her to have our usual very short bitching session entitled "Here We Go Again With the Christmas Tyranny." This year, though, I got an unpleasant surprise: "Oh, come on now. You have to make things fun and pleasant for Olivia."

Oh. Really. Do I. Well, this baby is only three weeks old, and I'm sure she'll be FINE if I am NOT enthusiastic about Christmas. next year, things will really be on the line, but give me my freedom just this one last time to be a total grinch. Please. I need this.

That said, this probably will be my last year to freely complain. To those of you who really enjoy this time of year, I am both envious and disgusted. Enjoy your trees and tinsel.

The Value of Perspective

I'm always hopeful that someday I'll start writing again. Really. I've only had writer's block for four years; I'm sure it'll go away soon enough. To that end, I'm beginning a new blog. If motherhood can't get me out of this slump, nothing can!

Also, I've been reading a lot of David Sedaris lately, and his writing allowed me to realize that many of the crazy life situations I've been dealing with the past twenty or so years are actually funny. Rather, I find them funny, and that's all it will take for me to enjoy writing about them. On the other hand, I may be the only one involved who finds them funny; many of the other paricipants in my life take my life very seriously, at least as it pertains to THEIR life. I really wish I could be like Mr. Sedaris and say "sorry friends and family, but that's what happens when you give birth to/are a sibling of/are friends with me," but I'm not sure if I'm there yet.

Is this going to require a private blog, then? We shall see.

My daughter, Olivia Irene Ganger, was born November 3, 2007. She's an extremely content little thing; she already sleeps through the night, and when she does awake, she's quiet and smiling, usually only wanting a quick snack before she settles back into sleep. Perceptive readers (who can also count) will notice that this is slightly unusual behavior for a child her age. I confess that I had expected a furious infant who howled through diaper changes, baths, quiet moments and loud ones, so I hadn't thought that I would have much free time. As it is, today I've socialized with friends, taken my dog for two walks, done two loads of laundry, spent a (better undisclosed) bit of time online, and talked with a few people on the phone. All this has been accomplished while my little one slept or cooed happily in her sling. Maybe this is just one of the benefits of wearing Olivia cradled against me rather than plopping her down in her crib for sleepy time, but however it's occuring, I'm grateful. With some of this unexpected free time (which will last until she starts wanting to crawl), I'm going to knit up a storm and blog a bit.