Monday, December 06, 2004

A liberal wants to kill Frosty the Snowman.

For a long time I've felt that on average, liberals are a more unhappy group than conservatives. In one liberal household I know, the most happy person can only be as happy as the least happy person. If someone is found in violation of the unwritten "Maximum Happiness Quotient," the others in the houshold make sure the offender's happiness is quickly brought down to the level of the least happy person. Pretty soon there's no point accepting a little joy into your life when you have to shed any excess when you open the garage door.

What else would explain the visceral liberal hate for anything positive? Constanlty projecting the displeasure of their own life onto others through hateful columns, mean editorials, mindless vandalism and violent protests, liberals may be the only people in the world who hold it against people for not always feeling like a victim.

Marueen Dowd unintentionally proves my point. A professional columnist who never met a room she didn't make brighter by leaving it, Dowd's botonist advised her to stop talking to her plants because it was killing them. Evidently upset her doctor won't renew her Zoloft prescription, Dowd had this to say about Christmas:
If I hear "Frosty the Snowman" one more time, I'll rip his frozen face off.

It's a scientific fact, or should be, that Christmas music can turn you into a fruitcake. It either sends you into a Pavlovian shopping trance, buying stupid things like the Robosapien, or, if you hear repeated Clockwork-Orange choruses of "Ring, Christmas Bells" drilling into your brain with that slasher-movie staccato, makes you feel as possessed with Christmas spirit as Norman Bates.

I've never said this out loud before, but I can't stand Christmas.

Everyone in my family loves it except me, and they can't fathom why I get the mullygrubs, as a Southern friend of mine used to call a low-level depression, from Thanksgiving straight through New Year.

"You're weird," my mom says. This from a woman who once left up our Christmas tree until April 3, and who listens to a radio station that plays carols 24/7 all month.

My equally demonic sister has a whole collection of rodents dressed in holiday clothes that she puts up around her house. There's a mouse Santa Claus and mouse Mrs. Claus and mice elves and a miniature Christmas village with mice, and some rat Cinderella coachmen in pink waistcoats and rats in red velvet vests and more rats, wearing frilly red-and-white nightshirts and nightcaps and holding little candles, leading you up the steps to bed. It's beyond creepy.

My mom and sister both blissfully sat through "It's a Wonderful Life" again on Thanksgiving weekend, while even hearing a mere snatch of that movie makes me want to scarf down a fistful of antidepressants - and join all the other women in America who are on a holiday high - except our family doctor is a Scrooge about designer drugs, leaving me to self-medicate as Clarence gets his wings with extra brandy in the eggnog.

I've given a lot of thought to why others' season of joy is my season of doom - besides the obvious fact that yuppies have drenched the holidays in ever more absurd levels of consumerism.

I think it has to do with how stressed out my mom and sister would get on Christmas Day when I was little. I remember them snapping at me; they seemed tense because of all the aprons to be sashed and potatoes to be mashed. (In our traditional Irish household, women slaved and men were waited on.)

It might be exacerbated by the stress I feel when I think of all the money I've spent on lavishing boyfriends with presents over the years, guys who are now living with other women who are enjoying my lovingly picked out presents which I'm no doubt still paying for in credit card interest charges.

So now, on top of all the stress related to having a president and vice president who scared us to death about terrorists to get re-elected, I have to be stressed about the fact that my holiday stress might cause me to turn into an old bat - instantly, just like it happened in Grimm's fairy tales, when a girl would be cursed and suddenly become a crone.

Yep. I definitely need to rip Frosty's face off.

Please, Scroogette, don't assault Frosty.
Ostensibly, Dowd's hostility to Christmas comes from her generosity towards past boyfriends who came to terms with her depravity and kept the watches, DVD players and neckties as compensation for having to endure her wretchedness.

It would be inappropriate of me to question the matrimonial eligibility of a woman who needs to be kept away from sharp objects during "It's a Wonderful Life." So I won't. Only an Ice Queen wouldn't be perennially moved by that movie.

Wait a minute. Snowman + Ice Queen? Hmmm

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