Meh, Meh Christmas

I didn’t blog at Christmas. Shocking, right? Usually I get all emotional around Christmas time, you know, sorta like in days-of-yore (my twenties) where I’d drink too much and then start randomly calling people on my phone to tell them how much I loved them. But this Christmas I was just…meh.



sad elf


I did the Christmas stuff you’re supposed to do: I made cookies, ate too much Chex Mix, and sent Christmas cards. I listened to Christmas music by Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby and the hottest song EVER by Dean Martin “Baby It’s Cold Outside”. (He’s the only singer that seems to understand that this is a song about seduction, about Getting It On, and not about staying inside where it’s toasty.) So, I did everything RIGHT, but I just couldn’t get into the spirit.


I don’t think I needed ghost visitations like in Scrooge to get me excited about cooking a turkey while simultaneously giving me hope for the future. I just needed…snow. And the kiddos. They spent the week leading up to Christmas with their dad, and that made me a little blue. It was also just plain WARM outside, and I just can’t think about sleigh bells when I’m sweating.


A True Story to Illustrate My Sense of Meh:


A few days before Christmas, I stayed overnight at a hotel near the studio I record at because I was exhausted. In the morning, I decided to treat myself to breakfast, so I went to a little diner next to a fast-food Chinese place. It was dark out. I hopped out of the car and was immediately startled by a legless man sitting in a wheelchair in a dark corner of the dark (so, dark squared) smoking a cigarette. Nothing against legless men, but the dude was scary, and he was LURKING. Not that he could run around or anything. Oh, shit. Forget I said that. (Horrible horrible me.)


Anyway. Here is the diner I went to. I know, I know, I should've known it'd be scary:




I ran into the restaurant which was about 2/3 full with old men in work clothes and heavy duty boots. The waitress (in her 60s with a smoker’s voice) sat me in the Singles section. All the Singles were facing the same way, except one dude was turned to look at all the Singles, and she put me right in front of him. We were a chair away from each other and he was staring at me while shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. In between bitefulls, he made big hacking coughs, as if attempting to expel a demon from his chest.


The waitress poured me coffee. It was so thick, I thought it was syrup. I tried to drink it, but it burned…the way vodka burns, except without any hope of getting a buzz. Getting The Plague, maybe, but not a buzz.


I took out my iPad and everyone sorta stared at me, and I could hear their thoughts: “Look at that lady bringing in her fancy tech gear and thumbing her nose at our coffee”.


I looked around the restaurant for a friendly face, and immediately noticed a table with four women, one of whom was dressed LIKE AN ELF. A 6’3 ELF. She had on this red velour shirt with a pointy green collar and bells. And she was wearing old jeans. And the whole experience made me feel as if 1) I’ve become a snob and 2) It’s hard to feel merry about Christmas when a legless guy scares you in the parking lot, a guy hocks up breakfast, and a tall lady-elf glares at you.


So I didn’t write during Christmas because I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer.


Wait. That phrase “Debbie Downer” is someone who makes others depressed, right, and not a porn name? Right?


Aw, jeez.


We ended up having a good Christmas. Kealoha spoiled me. And I feel better now that the kids were here for Christmas Eve and day. But I sorta am ready for the comfort of routine, and the time when you don’t feel so much pressure for everything to be sparkly and perfect and life-affirming. You know? I’m not hungry for turducken or caroling or miracles; I’m just hungry for normalcy. And maybe a wet burrito. But normalcy first.