Yes, children of all ages, the holidays are upon us like a pair of cement overshoes. As you may have deduced, the MJE is not a fan. All the false bonhomie, forced familial bonding, guilt, anger, resentment, rage … sorry got carried away. The OB&C and I survived the first hurdle, thanksgiving, which we shared with four grandchildren, one boyfriend (the grand daughter’s, not the OB&C’s or mine) and our son and daughter-in-law. We used to “celebrate” it in a small house in the mountains but that situation became untenable when procreation exceeded the available square footage. This year we “celebrated” it in the low country of South Carolina. It has everything we need for a bearable holiday: it’s flat and not freezing. We can send Apricot and Seymour off on their bikes and be reasonably sure that we’d see them again, eventually. The youngest, two year old Decibelle, presents more of a challenge. She manages to rule the roost without benefit of either language skills or high tech weaponry. Armed only with the ability to stop an elephant in its tracks by virtue of a voice that can only be described as “auditory hell” she controls the whole shooting match. She has the lung capacity of Maria Callas, but sadly, lacks the range. She hits one piercing note that simultaneously shatters your eardrums and makes your crowns explode. And let me tell you, there is no negotiating with that one, she should be the next secretary of defense. She’d get Putin out of Crimea without a shot being fired. And ISIS? They’d be beheading themselves after ten minutes.
What a holly jolly thought that there are three weeks of anticipation, desperation and forced consumption ahead to celebrate a pagan holiday repackaged as Christmas. Gotta hand it to the Christians, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. If they hadn’t done it Amazon would have.