It's raining. I'm PMSing. And I was craving roast beef.
(Sorry vegetarians. I tried it in the 80s, it didn't take.)
All I wanted to do today was tie my hair back, roll up my sleeves and put the ridiculous number of kitchen tools I've accumulated to use. Is that really asking so much?
But no. I forgot to take the beef out of the freezer in time to thaw last night. So much for domestic therapy. I've been bitchy and restless all day.
Yes, I know that's giving a hunk of beef way too much power. But it's either that or give the season too much power over me.
This blogs owner and I couldn't be more different in that regard. She's been known to sing carols in July, and yes, that was her skipping down the aisle at Macy's yesterday when a certain tune came across the store speaker.
I struggle to put on a brave face throughout the holiday month. By January 2, I'm more than over it. And this isn't a mid-life moment I'm having.
It is, I suspect, an only child moment.
When I was a kid we always went to my grandparents' house for Christmas. It wasn't the promise of a lovely drive south along I-75 that got us moving at sunrise on X-mas eve -- it was the need to surround the only child with three, four, six or more cousins. And I loved every moment of it. Going home a day or so after Christmas I'd sit in the back seat, leaf through a book and sigh.
The older I got the louder the sighs, the bigger the pile of books. It became simpler just to keep the surly kid home and invite the local relatives over for dinner.
In high school I formed a support system of friends, who, looking back, I realize were always around on Christmas Eve, even Christmas Day, because they were rebelling against having to split their holiday between divorced parents.
In college I worked retail and spent my day off sleeping. (Except for the year I came out and had HIVES at Christmas... but that's another post.)
Settled for several years in a steady relationship, my home with my ex became a stop on the holiday tour for both our families. I liked the entertaining itself more than the forced family fun. Rita would never believe it, but I spent days obsessing about where the stockings were hung and creating a unique centerpiece for the buffet table.
This year, like the last couple, I'm navigating the holiday season best I can. I'm tempering Rita's joy with the occasional bah humbug. I've finished shopping. I'll eventually crack open a bottle of cheap wine and wrap the presents.
And I'll have my roast beast. For breakfast. Tomorrow.