Control Freak

Next year, I refuse to get wiggy about the holidays.

I don't know what it was about this year: maybe the tree up so ridiculously early, maybe the pathetic snowstorms that flew in and out and left patchy, dirty accumulations.

Maybe it was my "ambitious" idea of making everyone elaborate Christmas cards and gifts out of paper, or maybe it was the smug security in knowing that I was going to maintain control and get it all done so efficiently.



All I know is that Christmas is creeping toward me at the same rate as a time bomb poised to explode--tick, tick, tick.

Time may be crawling, but it's always moving.

I find myself eager for this to be over with.

Next year, I'm not making cards. I'm not making presents for all of the grandmothers. I'm not going to walk past the stack of books that I am dying to read but have to ignore because I've got too many other things cooking on the ol' holiday stove (current list: Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris, The Last Days of Dogtown by Anita Diamant, Second Draft of My Life by Sara Lewis, The I Ching for Writers by Sarah Jane Sloane, and A Writer's Paris by Eric Maisel).

Next year, I'm not going to plan. We are not going to "schedule" our popcorn stringing, Santa visits, and muffin baking.

We are going to roll with the days. If we miss the Kris Kringle Processional through the town, then so fucking be it. We'll see it the following year.

Next year, I'm making ONE batch of cookies, buying the biggest Hickory Farms appetizer "kit," deigning "writing time" as non-negotiable, and stuffing all of the miscellaneous clutter into a closet (thanks, Ldahl!). I'm going to crash a Chrismtas party or two, and I'm going to screen all of the fun, holiday movies of my youth, like "Christmas Vacation," "Scrooged," and "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles." I'm going to walk through the town and appreciate the goddamn lights that the City strings on the trees on the main street. I'm going to listen to the "Elf" soundtrack, which has the Earth Kitt rendition of "Santa Baby" and the Leon Redbone/Zooey Deschanel version of "Baby, It's Cold Outside," over and over again.

And I'm going to do it all when I feel like it.

I might even save my money and take the whole brood on vacation to The Homestead, where we can snowmobile or ride horses or skeet shoot (HAHAHA) or get pedicures. Together. I will save my money so that I can secure the services of the resort babysitting staff so that Lou and I can dine in the fancy ballroom and dance to the Great Standards and not have to witness the boys, destroying our overpriced deluxe suite.

Next year, I'm not going to be such a freakin' control freak.

I'm going to settle down and enjoy the holidays.

Even if it kills me.