nazi

I often have to fight back the urge to be a complete bitch and correct the grammar/usage in my friends' facebook statuses. I'd like to make something like that my status, but I think that'd be equally bitchy, no?

Christmas/Krismas/X-mas/Scrooge

In years past, I've thoroughly enjoyed Christmas. It began to become very lackluster when my parents separated. Now it seems to have gotten so far away from the original point that I can barely wrap my brain around the idea at all, and that certainly makes it difficult to get in the spirit of wrapping gifts. I am almost to the point of completely boycotting Christmas. I can't just boycott Christmas though; my family would not let me do such a thing. On a side note, I do wonder what effects it would have on a child to grow up not celebrating Christmas for nonreligious reasons.

Something has hit me concerning the holidays lately. And, it is a big something. None of them mean anything anymore. Christmas is all about who has the most lights up, who has the most presents under the tree, whose dinner will taste the best, etc. It doesn't take a very rational mind to see how materialistic things have become. I've realized for a while now that holidays are VERY commercial, but now that I am in a financial crunch that sentiment is ringing true more than ever, and let me be the first to say that it is one big bell ringing in my ears this season.

A skeptic would say that I am only saying these things now because times are hard for me at the moment. That may be true, but after experiencing something so profound dealing with the holidays, I doubt I'll ever look at it the same way again. Christians will say that Christmas is about the birth of Jesus, yet there is no sign of this anywhere in their personal lives, aside from that sad nativity scene half-obscured by Frosty and Rudolph.

I've read where some are now calling it "Krismas." This, of course, refers to Kris Kringle, but that seems even more trite than the Jesus side of the story. First of all, that feeds into the commercialism of the holiday. I will admit that many people seem to really enjoy the giving of gifts, and that is great. But, why not a spontaneous gift given at any moment out of love? Why must we go hunt at 4:00 AM on Black Friday for the perfect gift? Not to mention, that the older I get the more creepy ole' Kris becomes. I mean, why is it okay for a fat, bearded, bald man to slide down my chimney to eat my cookies and then leave me a gift? If that isn't a sexual reference then Freud wasn't a psychologist.

Much to my mother's dismay, I recently told her that I am not going to teach Nora, my one-year old, about Santa Clause. She will certainly know of him, but for her he will always be pretend, sort of like Scooby-Doo. This goes for the Easter Bunny and the Great Pumpkin. Why should I lie to my child about such a matter? She will eventually find out the truth, and then she may very likely question why I've lied to her.

Does all of this mean that I am a scrooge? By no means does it mean such a thing. It means that I am a realist. I still want to gather with my family; I'd just prefer the gifts to be a little more minimal. I don't need a lot of stuff, but I do need their love, support, and hugs. I receive those things everyday. But, sure let's celebrate the fact that that happens. I can do that. I realize I'll never fully get away from Christmas, but I don't have to embrace it so fully. I'm not trying to outrun it; I am just going to let it pass me by.

rest

Everything has compounded. It seems as though my year ends when the semester ends. A break from this stress seems like a false-advertisement, like the lifetime warranty promised by late night infomercials. The headway I should be making on final papers is non-existent.

I feel lost in a maelstrom of information and longings. Everything is mixing together in ways I would have thought impossible only days ago. I just wish that someone would define the word "rest" for me. Or maybe, if conceivable, give me a bit of that fabled state.

My disheveled sheets offer no comfort. The empty coffee mug on the end table offers no energy. There is no one there to answer my prayers.

Even so, I move on. I look toward greater things, and I ponder that imagined state of rest that my grandparents seem to have complete control over. Even when my body is at rest, my mind is roving. I am constantly longing for another body to be lying beside my own, breathing rhythmically, speaking cool words about hot topics.




"Love is the kind of illness that does not spare the intelligent or the dull." - Albert Camus

hands and feet