It's amazing how you can almost entirely miss out on all the holiday cheer when you never visit a mall, don't watch commercial TV, don't listen to the radio, and all your friends are godless sodomites.

Aside from the twinkly lights and yarn bombings — and I am all about twinkly lights and yarn bombings — it could be, like, Whitsuntide in Antarctica for all I know. 



It's true, my mind has been elsewhere.  I've been busy with the transition at the garden society (it's way more complicated than you'd think, with everything trickling in from various and sundry over the course of the allotted month) and the new job, and I haven't quite worked out my work-life balance yet. 

There have already been a couple of casualties on the life end.  I snapped at my Sunday Night Sleep-over when he loitered too long in bed Monday morning, cutting into my suddenly much-attenuated Mike Time. I would normally not mind letting him linger a bit, but in my little flat sometimes two's a crowd.

It's shocking to me personally how many people don't understand Mike Time, or whatever you call it in your language.   

The trouble is, when I don't have time to stroke my chi I get... well, I get serious.  I think this has to do with my genes.  My father, the loopy Italian, was not really very serious at all, which sometimes made him angry.  But even when he was angry it was short, intense, and superficial — which, come to think of it, was a good description of the man himself.  My mother, from more somber Germanic stock, is often stridently, off-puttingly serious, even about the silliest things.  Sometimes she doesn't realize she's so serious, which can be funny in a way.

Two great tastes that go great together, right?  The offshoot is, it takes a lot of discipline for me to maintain a sense of humor that anyone can understand, balanced between Leni Riefenstahl and Federico Fellini as I am.  And sometimes I'll admit I lose the plot.  

Sometimes the weather's a factor.  With the cold snap last week my bicycle commute suddenly became very serious indeed.  I'm not someone who believes in wearing ski masks in public unless you plan to knock off a bank, but I'm also not terribly fond of chapped face.  Tuesday the cold was so bitter cold it was pulsing hot — I arrived at work with a wicked case of windburn.

Weather can really put you out of sorts sometimes.  Friday morning I felt brittle and it didn't take much to make me snap. I dropped into Starbucks on Tremont on my way to work, and was standing in line.  Clearly standing in line, though not facing forward.  I was standing in line looking at the display of coffees to my right.  But still right behind the guy ahead of me.  In line. 

A guy comes in — normally someone I'd find kind of cute, definitely doable.  He was in a loose, cheery holiday mood.  Comes up behind me in the line that I'm obviously in, and says, "are you in line?"

I wanted to sock him. 

This is part of a larger trend, I fear.  I mean, the part where annoyance overrides cuteness.  I guess this means I've finally hit the wall when it comes to cuteness.  It doesn't work on me anymore.  Which is sad in a way.

But it could just be the weather. 

You know how extremes of hot and cold can change solids to liquids and vice-versa.  Maybe it's the same with emotions and relations. 

Anyway, I looked at the guy good-naturedly asking me if I was in line or not, I looked ahead of me to make sure I was still lined up with the guy ahead of me.  I was.  And then I looked back at the new guy.  He was grinning at me.  The perfect picture of yuletide cheer.

I said, "yeah, I'm in line.  I'm not over there.  I'm just looking over there.  But I'm standing here.  In line."

I used the exact same tone I use with Immigration whenever I return from abroad.  Like, how dare you question my right to be here.  I am always genuinely surprised they let me back in, usually without a fight.

The fellow behind me giggled good-naturedly, like I'd just said something funny.  If it had been two degrees warmer I think I probably would have taken this as a pick-up.  Instead I narrowed my eyes at him and turned around to face forward.  Because apparently that's what you do in line.

And then barristas are all such awful cliches, God bless 'em.  So that was awful.   I wanted to give them each a copy of What Was The Hipster? ("was" being the operative word) for Christmas. 

And then that whole "venti, grande" thing they make you go through.  You know, it's one thing to call a drink or a menu item by a made-up name.  Heck, that's half the fun of ordering cocktails.  But a size is a size.  You don't get to rename a freakin size.  I'm sorry.  If it's the cup between the little cup and the big cup, it's a freakin medium. 

It'd be like Home Depot renaming a unit of measure.  Like if you went into Home Depot and they made you order lumber by the dinklage or some crazy shit they just made up.  And you know damn good and well people would actually do it.

Annoying in all sorts of weather.

So the long and short — the grande and venti of it, if you prefer, is: the closest I've come to the Christmas spirit this yuletide is listening to Edith Piaf and pretending she's singing carols.  I know, right? 

It's like, Meh, humbug.

But I'm thinking of splurging on a flat-screen TV in the new year, so that next Christmas I'll be wishing you all Bah, Humbug! instead.