Happy f*cking holidays

*Directions* – please put on your humor glasses before reading. Some effects are in 3-D.

The past month of my life has sucked old man balls. No offense to old men and their dangly bits. Well, maybe just a little. Since men traditionally age so much better than women maybe I’m just angry that my face is showing its age so much more this holiday season – and men can always (and usually do) cover their testes with clothing. I needed to make a crack on them to make myself feel a tiny bit better.

Just follow along, friends. It’s for my mental health.

I won’t go through everything that’s bringing me down this holiday season, because, Hey. I care about you. I want you to have a happy season. (You’re welcome.) But the highlights include:

*one totaled Subaru named Suzanne – on Thanksgiving, no less. Oh, and this is after a long day of chemo for Ben, because, why not make my most despised holiday even shittier?

*one dead hamster named Liz Lemon, which added a whole lot of insult to the bullying injury my daughter was already facing. Sixth graders, man. Why adolescence has to happen at all will always remain a mystery to me. Add in a dead hamster and watch the emotional eruption cover your holiday season like hot ash covered Pompeii. They’ll unearth me someday, curled in a fetal position, sucking my thumb and holding a perfectly preserved fruitcake.

*three panic attacks that ended with me passing out, one in the comfort of my own kitchen, another outside of the house after an Avalanche game (we won… I’ll chalk the passing out to the AVS actually creaming an opponent this season) and the other in a very crowded IKEA. Check YouTube for “Middle-aged woman wearing yoga pants passes out while browsing ANGSSKARA duvet covers.” I’m sure it’s trending as I type. Everyone just assumed I was diabetic. Never have I had so many people trying to throw orange juice at me at once. It was like a citrus stoning. It ended without much excitement, I finished shopping and Matt is putting together the KELLAX shelving as I lay here recovering.

I’m sure I could compile all the nonsense that’s occurred this month and come up with my own twisted version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” If only I had the energy to write it….

The holiday season has always left a lot to be desired. I’m not sure if it was the drama of shuffling between broken homes or all the food that touches each other or watching step-siblings get awesome presents while your biological father tells you yours had been stolen out of his car, so there was nothing for you that year (I wish I were making that up for dramatic purposes. Don’t tell him I know the truth… he thinks I still believe his bullshit.) But it’s always left me with feelings of inadequacy, no matter what I’ve tried to do to release it. And, of course, once I had my own children I felt compelled to make it the Best. F*cking. Event. Ever. Overcompensate much? Sure. I’m guilty.

But this year will be different. It’s about the memories instead of the stuff. I don’t subscribe to any religion, so I guess some would say that I shouldn’t celebrate at all. Not that I don’t believe in Jesus, or Hanukkah’s celebration of the rededication of the Holy Temple, or the first fruits of Kwanzaa – I do. I believe in it all. What it comes down to, no matter what you believe, is this time of year means gifts. And family, even if they’re horrible. And friends, if you have any. And, whatever tradition you decide to bring to the table. So, in addition to buying one thing for each child that they really and truly want, the rest is about having fun. Going on an adventure. Experiencing something new. We’re going to roll around in giant hamster balls (as long as it’s not mentally taxing for Madeline to be reminded of hamsters)¬†on the snow and swim in some hot springs and eat Chinese on Christmas Day and enjoy each others’ company. Let’s see THAT get stolen from the car.

And whenever something horrible happens, I do try to balance it with the good: I got a newish car. She’s beautiful. And my daughter went back to school last week, bravely making the decision to not let other turd-balls screw with her mental health. While she still mourns Liz, she’s doing her best to find the joy of the season. My son finished his second round of chemo and is on the upswing to physically getting stronger. Scans will occur the week after Festivus, which takes place on 12/23 for those who are interested, and hopefully we’ll learn that he shows no evidence of disease.

As for those pesky panic attacks, I’m going to embrace them. There’s not a freaking thing I can do about them because my stress level never dips below a full tank. And it’s a good way to get random people to bring me water. I did, however, join a depression club through Children’s Hospital where the 10th punch gets me a month’s supply of Prozac gratis. So I got that going for me.

Actually, I have a lot going for me. I just like to complain. And moreover, I like sharing my complaints with you. Because you love me.

You all truly love me. What would you do without my wicked sense of humor and discussion of old man balls? I bring levity to your life. Admit it.

And that’s a freaking Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Festivus miracle. Shit. I’m pretty sure an angel just got their wings.

Love to ALL of you this glorious, f*cking holiday season.