Bring On The Joy. Please.
Enough already with the freakin’ car commercials.
I am not, by nature a Grinch. Admittedly, for me, the holiday season has lost some of its luster due to personal losses like family, friends and nearly two years ago — the involuntary separation from my job of fifteen years.
Writing on Medium has become my job. The profit sharing leaves something to be desired, and there’s no 401k or health insurance, but hey, any port in a storm, right? Plus, my co-workers are a cool bunch.
But, where the holiday season is concerned, If I see one more TV commercial where some rich asshole is gifted with a car, I think I’ll hurl. It’s not that I’m judgmental. I certainly hope I don’t come across that way. And I don’t begrudge anyone’s good fortune. God bless, you know? That said, when so many people live paycheck to paycheck, rarified crap like that is hard to swallow. But then again, the “first family” is as rarified as it gets.
Perhaps Jared will gift Ivanka with a new Mercedes topped with a big, red, bow. Something they could drive off into the sunset with. Or off a cliff. If only.
Part of the problem is that I’m a worrier by nature. Also, a brooder. And not in a sexy way. Oh, I’m “mindful,” sure, but not in the way you’re supposed to be. My mind is full, alright. Full up. I’d love to be able to flick a switch now and again, collapse on the sofa in front of The Food Channel and just go with the flow.
As previously mentioned, this February will mark two years since my lay off. And I haven’t made squat since. I’m talking money. ( I barely count what I make on Medium.)
Surely, I’m not without prospects. I’m able bodied, meaning I can haul heavy objects around in a big box store, if necessary. And it’s not vanity that’s keeping me from doing just that. I don’t think I’m “too good” to do anything at this point. An honest living for an honest job. Can’t ask for much more than that. But, I’m going to try to hold out a little while longer because my gut keeps telling me, “Sherry, the Big One is right around the corner.” And by that, don’t mean a stroke.
Later today, I will get in touch with my manager and ask how the “shopping the script thing” is going. I’m certain I’ll get an upbeat, yet indecisive response which in essence, will tell me “Nothing yet, but hang in there.” With “hang” being the operative word.
I’m not entirely sure why I’m always so worried. It’s not as if my husband and I are destitute. He’s employed, thank goodness. But, it must be noted that every time I go to the market, the “Kaching, Kaching” of money drizzling out of our checking account like snot from a toddler’s nose, is like a kick to the gut.
Holiday spirit: I haven’t completely lost it. I’ll decorate. We’ll put up a tree. The fire will burn in our two-sided fireplace every nigh. Scented candles will fill our home with the rich aromas of pine, cinnamon and holly. And, the liquid spirits will flow freely.
Through the years, my husband and I have had to forge our own holiday traditions as both sets of parents are gone — somewhere in the heavenly stratosphere where gift-buying is not an option. I hope that pleases them.
Don’t misunderstand: I love to buy gifts. It’s the paying for them that stings. Certainly, that doesn’t make me different from anyone else. I also wrap for shit, but that’s another story.
Mentioning my parents brings to mind all the memorable Christmas Eves spent at the home where I grew up. They were boozy, bouncy, joyous affairs where my Jewish Dad was more into it than anyone else. He was the bartender. The only tip required: To have one hell of a night.
My Italian Mom would prepare the typical Italian Christmas Eve fare: No meat, just lots of seafood and pasta. Baked clams, fried Calamari — yum! And, as I said, the alcohol flowed freely, sometimes to disastrous effect. But I don’t want to ruin the warm glow I’m feeling by recalling those times by talking about that.
As I don’t want to end up as everyone’s least favorite sad sack, I’m going to try harder to “find the joy.” But I think I’m going find it in little deeds and actions, like:
Watching our three cats dream their post-prandial kitty dreams…
Taking a soothing bubble bath, the glow of a scented candle softening my crepes…
Thinking about what it would be like to make glogg, (just thinking, mind you, as pyrotechnics aren’t my style, neither is bursting into flames) …
Watching favorite holiday movies with my husband. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation is still a hoot. And if you haven’t seen it, Christmas In Connecticut, is a must, as is Remember The Night…(Where are the Hanukkah movies, by the way?)
Getting the gifts, I know my husband will love, money be damned…
Switching up my “everyday clothes” for a bit of glitz and glamor…
Leaving a nice note and a small monetary “thank you” to our mail carrier, even though he’s a dick…
The city’s trash collectors can fend for themselves. They’re used to it.
So that’s the plan. And I’m suddenly psyched thinking about all the ways I can enjoy the season and hopefully, dial down the stress. I’m hoping the above can help you, as well, should you find yourself in a holiday funk.
This year, we’re going to my sister’s house for Christmas Eve. Christmas day will be my husband and myself and our three unconditionally-loving felines. And I vow to have one hell of a time.
How blessed am I?
Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.
Thanks for reading, guys. If you’re up for more of my ramblings and those of my fellow writers:
Plus:
