I still love Christmas, in spite of the fact that, to some extent, it’s been the season of disappointed expectations since I found out Santa wasn’t the one eating the cookies and milk my Mom put out on the table on Christmas eve.

Currently my expectations are being disappointed by the NPR Christmas song list. With the possible exception of the Louden Wainwright ditties, it is not fulfilling my festivity goals. According to popular music, Christmas is more about missing people than about actually being with them, or making out with Santa.

I’m particularly driven to force the festive spirit this year because I can’t go back to my parents’ for Christmas. It’s the first time in thirty years, and it’s a bummer. The disappointment is exacerbated by the fact that this christmas was supposed to be the first one in years where I – as a graduated and (I expected) employed lawyer – would be able to not just go home, but also buy presents for everybody. That set of expectations rested on my finding a job, or course. And here I am.

Scott, who professes to be happy to have me home for the holiday, is also keeping his distance. Because I’ve managed to get gloriously sick. I am the disgusting, snot sodden mother of stuffy, sneezy, miserable contagion right now.


I read somewhere that humans have winter holidays precisely because winter is such a difficult time of year. So we’re supposed to hunker down and hang on to each other and wait for the sun to come out and the colds to go away. (Possibly we’ve since effectively negated the positive impact of our primitive genius by incorporating airports into the equation) So I am hunkering.

The Christmas tree is decorated, I made a garland for the arch between the living room and the dining room, and our poor little half-attended creche set is on the mantle. (It’s a hand-me-down; apparently the shepherds got lost during its first life.) I have also created my own Spotify Christmas Song list, since NPR is disappointing me. Currently I’m listening to Jerry Orbach singing ‘Try To Remember’ and looking (somewhat avariciously) at the packages under the tree. If my nose will permit it, we’re going to the kids nativity service this evening. I’m contemplating trying this recipe.

So, my fellow hunkerers, Merry Christmas. I wish you Bing Crosby, pine smells, eggnog and puppies.

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