A Christmas Catharsis
Screaming into the void never hurt anyone.
I have two very dear actor-writer mom friends who live in different cities, and we send silly videos back and forth to each other. We’d prefer live chats of course, but sometimes life is too busy for facetiming when you’re navigating different time zones and children’s bedtimes.
During Omicron Christmas in 2021, when most of the country was under some kind of lockdown, Anonymom sent Heather and I a video from her garage, where she was hiding from her family. She was sneaking a whiskey and a smoke, wrapped up tightly in a fur-hooded parka because, in addition to the Omicron variant, Western Canada was also experiencing a polar vortex and it was -50 degrees. Anonymom then proceeded to tell us about homeschooling her eight-year-old during the latest lockdown, while simultaneously trying to potty-train her three-year-old, her husband losing his job two weeks before Christmas, their hot water tank busting over the holidays, the glee of the plumbers getting their Christmases paid for by a callout on a Boxing Day Sunday. But the whole time she’s telling this story, in between sips of her whiskey and drags on her smoke, she has a big smile on her face, like she’s taking it all in stride. She signed off by blowing us a kiss and telling us, “there’s always hope.” It was the most hilarious and beautiful thing I’d ever seen, I watched it dozens of times. I told Anonymom later that she basically wrote a monologue on her feet. We joked that it was a Christmas Mom-ologue, and wouldn’t it be great if we could do a show where a bunch of moms wrote about their love-hate relationships with Christmas?
So that’s what we did! Thanks to the inspiration from Anonymom, The Christmas Mom-ologues ran in 2022 and 2024 in the Second Space at the LSPU Hall. The show sold out both years, moms got a lot off their chests, and I had numerous women I’d never met come up to me after the show, squeeze me by the arm and say, “I really needed that.” We tapped into something pretty great, and apparently sorely needed. We’d hoped to do it every year but we’re treating it as a biennale (that’s code for we were too fucking busy last year) so we’ll see where 2026 takes us. Fingers crossed it’s not into full-blown Armageddon but anyway, like Anonymom says, there’s always hope!
It's been cracked on this end, for all the above-mentioned reasons, so until I get back to some semblance of a proper posting schedule, I’m going to share the piece I wrote and ranted this year. And if you get through it, there’s a recipe for my favourite Christmas cocktail at the end.
The Christmas Olympics
In this time of great political division, where everything is either black or white, or “with us or against us”, with seemingly no grey area in between, it’s hard to reach across the aisle and find common ground with people of differing opinions and political leanings. But sometimes, you’ll find it in very surprising places. For example, me and Melania Trump. Not at first glance, obviously. I’m not blessed with those incredible Slavic genes, or the money to upkeep them. I’m talking about Melania’s strong dislike of Christmas. Unless you’re like my dad and your only source of information comes from Fox News, a few years back, you might remember a recording was leaked of the First Lady going off on everyone’s favourite holiday:
“I’m working like a ass, my ass off with this Christmas stuff that, you know…who gives a fuck about Christmas stuff and decoration, but I need to do it, right?”
Now just to be clear, there’s a lot of things Melania doesn’t give a fuck about that I care about very deeply. If my husband was banging a porn star while I was home trying to breastfeed our new baby, he wouldn’t need to worry about running for president because he wouldn’t be here. But I’m guessing that Melania, like myself, would prefer her Christmases like presidential elections, or the Olympics. Let’s have it every four years. I’m talking like the Old Timey Olympics, none of this every two years bullshit, or that weird time during the pandemic when there was like, an Olympics every seven months or something. Winter and summer, every four years. Because I also hate the Olympics. After the Salt Lake City French Judge-Russian Mafia figure skating scandal of 2002, I’ve permanently tuned out. I’ve also tuned out after the latest presidential election, but it remains to be seen whether there’ll be another one of those in four years. I’m not saying I don’t want to have Christmas EVER AGAIN, so let’s just keep on with this Olympics thing and see where we end up.
Just think about it. Sure, you’re only finished paying off last Christmas when you gotta start in on the next one. And if you’re anything like me you’re just finished losing the weight before it’s time to start in on the cheese balls and cocktails again. Imagine how much better Christmas would be for your financial, physical and mental health if you only had to deal with it every four years! And b’ys, if golf and breakdancing and the trampoline have made it into the Summer Olympics, it’s only a matter of time before Christmas themed-events make it into the Winter ones. They could treat every hardcore Christmas task like its own sport. Except instead of a medal at the end you get to drink a martini in front of a roaring fire while Glen Powell massages your feet. And that’s just the bronze medal. Silver, he does it in the white t-shirt and cowboy hat from Twisters. And gold? He goes shirtless and washes your hair afterwards, followed by a deep conditioning. Oh, you bet your ass I’ve thought a lot about this.
Here's some events we can propose to the International Olympics Committee:
Winter Shotput: mothers take turns heaving their youngster out in the snowbank after they have a meltdown when they realize all the gifts have been opened and Christmas is effectively over till next year.
Holiday Biathlon: Instead of skiing and shooting, shopping and shooting. Once a person is completely checked off your list you do a shot of tequila. When your entire list is complete, you get to take a nap in a soundproof room where your children aren’t allowed to contact you for 24 hours. Attempting to do so gets them tossed back out in the snowbank.
Moms’ “We Do it to Ourselves” Pentathlon. Shooting, swimming, fencing, equestrian, and cross country running are now to be replaced by cleaning, tree trimming, baking, mediating your dysfunctional family, and self-loathing slash drinking in your robe while crying in a locked bathroom, followed by waking up on Christmas Eve morning broken out in full body hives from all the stress. And if you think full-body Christmas stress hives aren’t a thing, ask me how I know.
“Dead Week” 100-Metre Dash. How fast you move to put on a bra and brush your teeth when someone has the audacity to show up unannounced for a visit between December 26th and 31st. What is this, the 1800s? No fuckin’ mummers allowed in while I’m trying to eat a box of After Eights for lunch while binge-watching the entire seven seasons of Outlander, and I don’t care if you’re wearing your mother’s big forty-two bra, this was a bra-free zone until you showed up on my doorstep and ruined everything.
Anyway, you get what I’m saying. Could be worse I suppose. I could be in Melania’s shoes. Her Christmas Olympics events are “Pretending to be in Love with the Husband Who Wants to Date his Own Daughter” Ski Jump, or “Trying to Keep the Step Grandkids Away From Matt Gaetz at Whitehouse Parties” Moguls Event. I mean, you and me and the entire internet know that decorating everything as handmaids disguised as angry red Christmas trees was a cry for help.
So, in this supposed season of giving, and generosity, and good will towards my fellow man, and most especially my fellow woman, I will try to embrace the season that I normally hate with, say, the white hot rage of an over-qualified woman who’s just lost a job to a convicted felon. This year, I’m going to reach into the cold, dark recesses of my shrivelled, cynical coal-black heart, and I’m going to have a goddamn good time at Christmas. Why this year in particular? Well, the pessimistic part of me wants to say, “Because it’s probably going to be our last, idiots!” but the glass half full of eggnog part of me has decided that life as we know it now, has to be about gratitude, and the relishing of small joys. The happiness radiating from my kid when he opens his presents. Our (weather-permitting) Boxing Day Boil-up on the Beach. Not having to wear a bra and eating all the cheese during dead week. (Mummers, you’ve been warned.) Drinking champagne cocktails with Justin in the evening, (or the morning) even if we’re just at home in our pajama pants. I mean, the shopping and capitalism can still suck it, but you know what? I kinda really love not having to pack school lunches for two weeks. The twinkly lights, the snowy walks in the woods, the visits from friends, the food…Jesus Christ! Happy Birthday! I do give a fuck about Christmas!
Thanks, Melania. I never thought someone like you could make me see the Christmas light. I won’t go as far as wishing you a Happy Holidays, but make sure you get your measles vaccinations up to date, in case you end up next to RFK Jr at the Christmas staff party.
Christmas Clemontini
Put this in a martini shaker with ice, or a mason jar with a lid:
2 oz freshly squeezed clementine juice
2 oz freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 ½ oz rosemary simple syrup (or a rosemary/thyme combo)*
1 ½ oz vodka
1 ½ oz apple vodka
*Lately I’ve been vibing on a rosemary and thyme simple syrup. Either will do, or a combination of both. Straight up rosemary is great, but adding thyme gives it a more foresty-savoury note. Or something. In a medium saucepan, combine 1 cup water, 1 cup granulated sugar, and a couple of sprigs of rosemary/thyme. Stir and heat until sugar is dissolved. Bring to a boil then reduce heat and simmer for one minute. Remove from heat and let steep for 30 minutes, then strain into a jar. Let cool completely before using. Keeps for a couple of weeks in the fridge. Best to double the recipe if you plan on making pitchers for Christmas like we do.
Shake well and strain into two martini glasses, or one if it’s been a day, I’m looking at you moms. Garnish with a sugared rosemary sprig if you like, or do a rosemary-sugar rim on the glass beforehand. Or just do some simple math and make a giant pitcher because martinis are a pain in the ass. Top up with a bit of club soda or fizzy water if you like. These go down like Kool-Aid, so mind yourself. Play around and go stronger with more booze, or sweeter with more syrup, or lighter with more juice, but this is the balance I like, pretty sweet-tarty, like mah-self.
Merry Happy Everything, Chickens! I hope you have a lovely and restful holiday. Boozy or sober, chaotic or calm, full of family, friends, friends who are chosen family, or flying completely and delightfully solo. Eat something good, take lots of naps, and we’ll see you next week for the Year-End Top Ten.
xo
