If We Can Make it Through December…

THE ONLY THING GOOD ABOUT THIS TIME OF YEAR IS FASHION SENSE AND EGGNOG.

I’m not down with the holiday season. It is not my game, my thing, or my jam. There isn’t much I like about it. The cold weather doesn’t bother me—we finally get to dress like grown-up people—but the over the top consumerism and weird religious garbage can all take a flying leap. It’s a nutty idea—to take the month wherein most businesses and individuals are at their very worst financially, and implant and promote the idea that we all need to spend disproportionate and irresponsible amounts of money in order to demonstrate to people—people who already ought to know by now—that we “love” them. It’s manure, it’s piss, it’s an egregious attack on anything and everything moral, ethical, or otherwise worthwhile; yet I am drawn into it, year after year, forever, until I die.

When I die, I hope and I pray that I die three weeks before Christmas: before I’ve done an iota of goddamn shopping, before any holiday parties, before any of this bullshit and nonsense has had a chance to happen. I don’t hate, because hate is a strong word, and hatred affects those who hate in far worse ways than it affects those who are hated, but I hate Christmas. As I get older it isn’t getting any better; it’s getting worse.

My Annual Ode to Eggnog

The only thing that gets me through this hellish season in the abyss is eggnog. Goddammit and thank God for eggnog. Eggnog makes me think there might actually be a God: an understanding and sympathetic God who watches, concerned, as Satan plays his games—with the Black Friday and the Cyber Monday, and the horrific music and the godawful decorations (and the fucking Yule Logs—acting like this clogged toilet of a season is something to rejoice upon and capitalize upon)—and He looks down in His benevolence and His wisdom and He grants us the beautiful, healing and wondrous elixir that is eggnog.

There are pills on the desk here and I’m thinking about eating them, except I think they might be some sort of medication that maybe somebody here needs, and so I will leave them. I don’t “need” anything, necessarily.

Trish tells me not to eat the pills—says they are some name I don’t understand, but it doesn’t sound like they will get me high. Never mind, I have eggnog, and gin. I am thankful, I am grateful. It is calm right now but some other storm of the century is approaching, and if all goes well it will wipe us all out before another Christmas has a chance to finish us off. I am the Grinch, the Scrooge—I don’t give a shit. I am remorseless and heartless and if you try to take my eggnog I will stab you in the neck with a goddamn turkey bone.

Bob Howard has been living, working, and writing in Northern Califonria since he moved to Chico in early 2000. In January 2011, he and his wife Trish relocated to Los Molinos, 30 minutes north of Chico, where they are the proud proprietors of the Double Happiness Farm. There they grow organic food, ornamental plants and trees, and generally work to enjoy the beauty of this great region.