I've had enough of this adult shit.
I haven't been able to get into my usual Christmas cheer yet because a) I'm sick with my annual bout of plague and b) my job is trying as hard as it can to kill every last drop of joie de vivre I have left (read: I am in deadline right now, which sucks. Some people in the magazine world call this hell week 'putting the magazine to bed,' but that to me suggests a gentle, quiet time, punctuated by lullabies and glasses of warm milk. Instead it's a tense, frantic week punctuated by wails of distress and bottles of beer.)
This weekend I was supposed to make roll-out cookies with my Mom, a Rockwellian tradition passed down from her mother. Every year since I can remember, we have rolled out the dough on our dining room table, dusting our cutting boards (and our faces) with flour. We have painstakingly extracted whisper-thin silhouettes of candy canes, stars, bells, and reindeer using a rag tag bunch of cookie cutters collected from decades worth of mail order catalogues. We have waited while they baked, listening to the sweet trills of Ella Fitzgerald Wishes You A Swinging Christmas!. And then we have decorated the still-hot cookies, painting on swirls of colored egg white and sprinkling colored sugar and jimmies on top until they stick.
Instead, I worked on Sunday. I nursed a nasty cold (or pre-plague, as I have come to know it). My grown up responsibilities -- to my job and to my health -- kept me from my cherished cookie ritual. And I just don't know how to deal with that. It's December 11, but I'm not jolly or hopeful or rosy-cheeked; I'm an over-worked, phlegmy, glass-half-empty Grinch! I only have fourteen days to turn it around ... maybe what I need is a Christmas miracle.