Reflections on the season and non-traditional Christmas songs

I'm having a Grinchy holiday season this year, and certain Christmas songs are getting under my skin. To wit:

I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus
Underneath the mistletoe last night.
She didn't see me creep
Down the stairs to have a peep;
She thought that I was tucked up
in my bedroom fast asleep.

I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus
Underneath his beard so snowy white
Oh, what a laugh it would have been
If Daddy had only seen
Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night.

Okay, now I realize I'm overthinking this, but this song bothers me. This poor kid is headed for a world of hurt. Either he believes his mom is cheating on his dad with the jolly old elf, or he's about to find out that there's no Santa Claus. Either way, the kid's headed for hurt.

Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just a cutesy song, but that's what the season is to me this year.

It hasn't been a good year. It's Christmas Eve and I'm at home alone, most of the way through a decent bottle of Alice White Shiraz and indulging in my annual tear-fest of "It's A Wonderful Life". Updating my blog. It just seems pretty pathetic. At least I have somewhere to go for Christmas (visiting friends Claire and Keith Hoffman in Springfield OH).

This year it's seemed to me like the ads are hammering extra hard on the whole "Christmas is for love and family", and here I am with neither. It's no wonder that people are depressed (or more depressed) at Christmastime. I've been out of work since Thanksgiving, and some days it's all I can do to get up -- and then I end up on the couch, providing cuddle space for the cats. I know that the world is full of those less fortunate than I am, but that fact doesn't make me feel any less miserable. I know that my troubles are mostly my fault -- that if I would really apply myself I could find a permanent job, control my diabetes and obesity, and maybe even rediscover the lost mysteries of love and sex. None of that make me feel any better - if anything, knowing I am the agent of my own misery just depresses me further. I hear my long-dead mother's voice saying "Well, just don't let yourself be depressed!" and I feel like a failure for being depressed. Which depresses me further.

It's not all bleak. I have good friends who check up on me regularly and who include me in their lives. My picture was in the paper this year (an article about the club in Lansing Noise). I helped Morrie write the final trilogy for the Living Force campaign, and it's a fine piece of work (though Morrie did most of the work). My Chill game is going very well. Serenity is out on DVD, and every bit as wonderful as it was in the theater (if a little smaller on the TV). I have money from Dad's trust to lean on when the work is lean, and I was able to get presents for my friends this year for the first time in maybe ten years. At some point I'll probably regret that, but right now I'm good with it.

Google Earth is tracking Santa's deliveries... I think I'll go watch.

Good Yule to you, and whatever holiday you celebrate. Solstice is all about rebirth and new beginnings, about the glimmer of hope in the darkest of the dark. Here's to a better next year.

Friday Cat Blogging: Hobbes' Rotten No Good Really Awful Week

I worry that the cats, lacking comprehensible human speech and opposable thumbs, might be unable to let me know if something is wrong. I needn't have worried - when poor Hobbes found himself in distress, he came up to me and howled like a lost soul.

Then he sqatted in front of me (unproductively) and made me chase him around the house while he howled miserably and squatted periodically. I captured him, finally, and off we went to the Veterinary Clinic. Because, of course, it was Saturday and our beloved pets never get sick when the less expensive vet is open.

It turned out my poor little boy was... ahem... impacted, and spent several miserable hours getting the best medical care my savings can provide, and eventually being relieved of his burden. Complete with anesthesia. Poor kitty.

Then the poor dear got dragged home only to suffer his sister Piper's (right) hisses and outrage. This is something they both do, and it drives me nuts. When one of them goes to the vet, the other then hisses and snarls for days, as if the sibling had transformed into some horrific monster. The vet suggested, in all seriousness, that I rub the returned cat with dirty laundry in hopes of creating a familiar smell. Which I do, but it doesn't seem to help. I've even tried rubbing the stay-at-home cat with the dirty laundry and then rubbing it on the returned cat. And still they fuss.

Returned from torture, Hobbes lolled around on my bed disdaining food and water for about a day, worrying me even more. I took him to our vet for a followup visit on Wednesday (more chasing and stuffing into the cat carrier, and a terrifying car ride (if his complaints are to be believed) and all that poking and prodding).

He seems to be okay now... but who can blame him for just wanting a good snooze?

Cthulhu Slippers... Must. Have...

Cthulhu Slippers. There's this whole industry, I think, dedicated to making cute plushie things out of nameless horrors. I have far too many plush Cthulhu dolls in my house already (there's a teeny "Cthulhu in Black" on the TV), but it's been very cold this past week, and having my feet devoured by Great Cthulhu would probably keep them warm. Heh.

Fortunately for the budget, they're out of stock...