Holiday

I went on a bit of a writer’s holiday.  Yes, let’s call it that, shall we?  It was a rather low-buck holiday with bad, watery cocktails, slightly moldy-smelling bedsheets and several loud children playing outside my window all day and night…..but it was most definitely a holiday.  However, I forgot to pack my bikini or even my one sexy-ish dress.  I just sat there stunned, in my tired black sweatshirt with a hole on the right shoulder which I always hope makes me look like I workout too hard to care.  It doesn’t.  My laptop was there with me.  Terrible holiday companion, that one.  She was lying on the only pool lounger that had good sun with her new friends, Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram.  They each wore shiny, tight bikinis with giant, striped sun hats and clucked their tongues and giggled with each other over their latest fitness challenges-astronomical totals of inches and cellulite lost, their organic, vegan Thanksgiving feasts spread out like some famous painting in the Louvre and their warm, balmy trips to islands so very far away from this cloudy, algaed Georgia pool.  I just glared at her, at all of them, and drunkenly raised my warm glass of cheap Chardonnay.   “Cheers to you, Laptop.  Pst…your battery is getting low.”  hahahahahahahaha….sniff.

Ok fine.

Call it writer’s block.  Call it turning 40 or hosting 12 additional people alongside my 6 for Thanksgiving or call it being a mom to 4 god-they-never-stop-kids or call it depression or maybe loneliness or heck, call it Trump (my kids have nothing on him- that dude is exhausting).  I couldn’t write anything.  I felt slightly nauseous every time I walked by my office and worse than that, inadequate.  I have so very much to say or maybe in reality, I have nothing to say at all.  I’m still debating that with my girl, Laptop.  (Skull-cracking eye roll)

And just as I was wrapping up my lame writer’s holiday and sitting down to write my Pulitzer-prize winning piece two days ago, entitled Blood and Wine (I mean, seriously, who doesn’t want to read something with that title???), here comes f’ing Christmas to join me on my nearly-over holiday.  I was getting up from my shady, broken lounger, wrestling Laptop away from Facebook and crew, when Christmas opened the rusty gate to the pool and entered.  Christmas.  Oh my word, does Christmas have her shit together.

Facebook lost her mind and fell all over herself offering up her delicious, sunny chair and snapping her fingers for Instagram to hand over a bubbly pomegranate mimosa while Pinterest fell to her knees giving Christmas a mani/pedi.  Laptop laughed with glee knowing Christmas had arrived just in time to make this mommy-writer stay on holiday just a few weeks longer.  I sat judge-y and quietly, watching from across the pool with my $10 Target sunglasses pulled down my nose, my calves dangling in the shaded, algae water, bopping my messy bun to the Chainsmokers “Closer”:

“Hey, I was doing just fine before I met you,

I drink too much and that’s an issue, but I’m ok.”

Oh my darling, Christmas.  Your mossy-scented, perfect pine candles and mischievous Elves on Shelves (uuuuuuuuuuugh) and Amazon commercials that make me cry (and buy EVERYTHING), your gorgeous sweaters with highlighted hair flowing down your back and manger scenes with a glorious, swathed baby who might be a little lost behind that magnificent fake tree from Frontgate and your lists, the lists of to-do’s, I-want’s, I-need, donate-to’s, I-forgot, bake-for, check, check, check, fail, fail, fail.  And your cards.   Your perfectly-brilliant cards that both absolutely delight me and leave me feeling sweaty and breathless with panic.  They are already coming.  In droves.  They are on my refrigerator, and I am stunned by the beauty and love and innocence and humor and wittiness of the people we love and who love us.  Christmas has her shit together.  Yes she does.  I do not.  There will not be a Ferguson Christmas card this year.  It’s not necessary, actually, I think it’s impossible.  If I called Shutterfly, the conversation would go like this:

Shutterfly:  Merry Christmas from Shutterfly, how can I help you?

Me:  Quick question as I know Christmas is a demanding taskmaster and you must have so much to do!  Do you offer a card I can design online, or rather have someone do it for me (for free) which has the option to include 1 billion pictures?  You see, it’s been a heck of a year and your limit of 8 photos just won’t work for my family.  I need to include everything- a map photo of Argentina, a picture of our house in California with all of my children busy on homeschool lessons, Kai surfing and skateboarding until he hit dry land in Georgia and started playing golf, Zoey playing soccer with the LNYSA Hot Shots, Zoey playing soccer with the Augusta Arsenal, Bodey turning into a man child I hardly recognize, Lolo tugging Pipers’s leggings off like the tiny cartoon photo on the front of the Coppertone baby sunscreen bottle, me crying in a corner in Georgia and then laughing like a maniac as we dance to rap music in the kitchen, 10 nieces and nephews playing outside at Thanksgiving, the lady who whacked my car with an umbrella the other day, my children at Halloween protecting me with their fake swords and general bad-ass-ness, one thousand stops from coast to coast, a palmetto bug.  Shall I go on?

Shutterfly:  silence

See?  It’s impossible.

So this year, I will write my card.  I will write my thoughts and wishes and dreams and hopes instead of sending the one perfect (imperfect) picture.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas.  Happy Holidays!  Don’t spill your drink!  Would you like another frosted cookie?

Nope.  Not this year.  That was me-before I came undone in Georgia.  How about this:

To my tired friend finishing finals, may you find a few teeny seconds of joy and a luscious glass of wine (or two) to celebrate your awesome-ness.

To my beauties in Ireland, may 10,000 Celtic fairies carry your hearts gently and kindly through the holiday season.

To my one who is scared out of her mind, may the caring hands of warrior women who have gone before, wrap your hurting body in silken, golden sheets while singing gangster rap and scaring away the bad guys.

To my one still traumatized from her unthinkable 2016, 2017 is coming.  She’s coming like a goddess on a dazzling white horse, I just know it.

To my children, you don’t need all of that on your list, I do promise you that.  Look how freaking lucky we are.  And I love you, make good choices!

To my husband, it’s been hard.  Really, fucking hard.  I still love you, too.

To my family, good lord Thanksgiving was seriously fun but next time it’s at your house.

To my puppy, let’s try to find obedience classes in 2017.  You absolutely have to learn the command “come”.

To those who came back to me, I am so happy you did.  I missed you.  Very much.

To all of my beachy, lovely friends (family) and even those far from the beach, I think of you every….single……day.   I miss you every…..single……day.  May the dolphins and seals splash you with every holiday joy and blessing there is.

To Georgia…….ummmmm……..sorry, I’m not ready yet.

To our country…..please hold it together and remember how far we’ve come.  Or maybe it’s how far we have left to go.  Either way, keep it together.

To Orion……thank you for helping me keep my footing.

Happy Holiday(s), my babes.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo