Joy to the World, la, la, la, la…
It is possible that I am going to hell. I don’t think I can rule it out for such are the evil thoughts that course through my brain with more frequency than I dare confess. I wanted to run over a woman’s foot at the airport in Kansas City because she and her 14 pieces of fake Louis Vuitton luggage blocked the only bathroom in the terminal, I wished a plague upon the $8/ hour Starbucks employee at the same airport for closing early. I wanted to duct tape the overly chatty Phoenix flight attendants who took away any chance I had to sleep.
While sugar plums are dancing in the heads of my friends, that I hate Christmas this much practically guarantees me a seat in hell. This, predicated on my belief or lack thereof in an actual God.
Because you can’t believe in God without also believing that there is a force of evil that can put you in hell which in my case is either Chuck E Cheese or the cabin of an Airbus 321 that circles in endless loops around the country playing the same episodes of Two and a Half Men.
Hell may not be fire and brimstone but may be the manifestation of what we loath most in our earthly life. A dishwasher that must always be loaded and unloaded. Beltway Gridlock when you have to pee. Incessentantly trying to convince your 84 year old women that a) she’s 84 and b) that she should put her teeth in.
I was bloated with cynicism early this morning when, wearing a pair of white wool pants, I slipped on the ice spilling my coffee all over me but more importantly, costing me precious ounces of Caffine. Then I had brunch with some family friends who have 8 (EIGHT) full-size Christmas trees, including one wrapped in K-State ribbon. The excess was in its totality when they lead me into their feng shui “wealth room” recently and gorgeously decorated by another friend of ours but with a concert size piano that I’m relatively sure wasn’t part of the original design structure. A Steinway upon which “Fingerobics” are played at a cost of several thousand dollars per note. Later and with me mourning the lack of alcohol at said brunch, my emotional sepsis grew when one of the young daughters, a talented equestrian with “faith” tattooed across her lower back, started to tell us about her jesus-freak boyfriend that she met on iwanttofuckajesusfreak.com.
And this is why I know I’m going to hell. Because really, why shouldn’t she and her tramp stamp find love on line with a god-fearing Christian. I mean, this is Kansas after all. But I was choking on vomit. Could have been ambrosia salad though.
I’m the problem, and before you my 12 well meaning readers bombard me with suggestions for therapy, please know that very few people are as self actualized as I am when it comes to knowing what’s wrong with me. I KNOW what’s wrong with me and I don’t need to pay someone $150 an hour for suggestions like, “write your dad a letter from the heart that you’ll never send” or “take a bubble bath when you’re feeling stressed” or “start an abundance journal”. Hey, I watch Oprah too, dumbass.
This year, the season was punctuated with 3 arguments. One that I had with my mom, one that False Autie and Lizbeth had and one between False Auntie and Grandmummy that had the house on high-alert. In the end of course, everything is fine and right with the world. But in order to get to fine and right with the world, tempers flared, people cried and I haven’t set foot in a church on Christmas Eve in more than 3 years.
The plane is descending into Orange County where my mother, no doubt exhausted from her 12 hour day at the hospital book ended by a 4am wake up and my 9:30 pm arrival is waiting for me.
I’ll have 2 and a half hours to find the Christmas Spirit. So if you find the Ghost of Christmas Present, tell ‘em where he can find me.
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