They call me Scrooge. Oh wait, I think I messed the line up. Ah well, it’s apropos in any case. I’m agonizing with a writer’s lament.  I’m not a big fan of the holidays. The contradictions between the message of the season and people’s behavior inspires teeth grinding.

The memes floating the interweb currently about installing voting booths at Black Friday sales both amuse and horrify me. Our kids are grown. Let me rephrase, our kids are not little kids. Not only are they all taller than I am, but the hubbub of the holidays is beneath them.

A part of them still desires the trappings. You should’ve seen the drama when I casually suggested I might not put the tree or decorations out. Were any of them present for the process? Not a chance. Used to be an entire ceremony with everyone helping while holiday music blared.

I’m suffering withdrawal symptoms. More to the point, I’m like the person practicing aversion therapy….you know, taking the medication that induces vomiting. Putting up the tree, setting out the decorations left me nonplussed. Even Straight No Chaser failed to arouse the Yuletide spirit. I’m not even fired up at the Keep Christ in Christmas signs (No hard feelings Christ, but Christmas has its origins in pagan cultures, nothing to do with you).

Shoot, the Beard cut down my suggestion we downsize our holiday tree. “Our tree is the average size tree and it fits the room.” This from a man who avoids holiday cheer with the same acrobatics he avoids the tongues of the Writing Staff. Part of my ennui with the holiday season is the intrusion into my schedule. Teenagers are home on break. The Beard is home during the week. It throws off my mojo.

The planning of the feast is another interruption to my writing alchemy. Caveat, I LOVE to cook. I planned this Native American Decimation Day out with verve and spark. I was General Patton heading Operation Torch. Each day planned with precision for each dish I prepared. Of course, perfection ended when the turkey pan perforated and the entire contents of drippings released into the oven. Blazing inferno doesn’t describe the ensuing conflagration. Good thing most of our guests were vegetarians. The turkey turned out delicious, just complicated.

I also spent most of my time in the kitchen. Cooking, cleaning, cooking, cleaning, drinking coffee, cooking, drinking wine. Note the lack of writing.

The difficulty for me involved the demands for attention from the noise in my head. I’m torn between jumping into the holiday festivities and getting down to writing. Before Turkey Day, I practically hummed with creativity. I loathed ending my inspired push even as I looked forward to the wonderful company we’d invited to join us for NADD.

Yule is fast approaching. I’m planning a feast for earlier in the week. Crazy started talking a Christmas visit. I took control of the beast. The dotter has travel plans. The teenagers will embark to their bio-dad’s house. The Beard and I will celebrate the quiet with the Writing Staff. Just my speed. The battle strategy begins. I’ll print out the calendar for the week and time things so I’m not cooking last minute.

In the meantime, I’m plowing through as many words as I can in-between decorating the tree, freezing Turkey green chile and another round of cleaning the kitchen. I’m singing along with Michael Bublé in the hopes my holiday spirit flourishes.