Over at the SEx blog, I started something I feel compelled to continue. Unlike everyone else, who’s ready to share all the great holiday memories, and how much they love the holidays, I’m providing a haven for Grinches everywhere. There are all sorts of reasons to suffer through the holidays, and if you’ve ever felt like giving someone an eggnog enema when they tell you to have a great holiday, I’m your gal.

Seasonal greetings themselves have become a battleground. I have heard Ann Coulter being quoted as saying she enjoys wishing people a Merry Christmas because it’s like saying a little “Fuck you” to people who don’t celebrate Christmas. Now I have several reasons to loathe Ann Coulter besides this one, but since it’s seasonally appropriate, it’s a great reason to not be able to stand her for the months of October, November, and December. Coulter’s reasoning makes me think of a dorm-mate I had in college, whose deep West Virginia accent (although since we were attending West Virginia University at the time, I was the one with the accent) made her holiday greeting of choice sound like “Merry Kiss-my-ass,” which I loved and promptly stole from her. So Jessie, wherever you are, bottoms up for that one. But apparently, not wishing someone a Merry Kiss-my-ass means that you’re a terrorist. Bill O’Reilly even claims there’s a War on Christmas (TM).

When was the last time Bill O’Reilly went to a mall? Hell yeah, there’s a War on Christmas (TM). It’s on all the days leading up to Christmas, too, starting from Black Friday. The battlefields are in malls and shopping centers, and being waged by guerrilla troops, who cruise slowly up and down the rows of parked cars, stalking shoppers laden with bags and going the appropriate direction away from the center of commerce.

These automotive vultures drift in and out of the normal shopping traffic, turn signals flickering madly and incessantly as they creep by, hoping for the Big Score–the first parking space after the handicapped spaces. As elusive as the dream of the perfect orgasm, they nevertheless pursue it, edging their way in front of the people who are just trying to get through the damn parking lot to the spaces way out in BuFu just so we can engage in a simple exercise of basic provisioning (I needed a new bra, and JCPenney has those nice old ladies who will measure you). Yet even in BuFuland, the slots are scarce and the vultures are circling. I spotted a slot and headed for it, only to be stalled by a woman who chose to shake her pop-up stroller out in the middle of the lane. Ordinarily, I don’t feel much irritation at these folk–I tied my children to my torso when malling when they were light enough and small enough to stay put–now I make them walk–so I have sympathy with someone who needs to wrangle kids in the Toylands of Consumption. But you can bet I went into combat mode when the woman finally got kit and caboodle situated only to stop in her tracks and wave ahead the person coming from the opposite direction, who swung conveniently and tidily into the spot I’d been eyeing, and lurking, and waiting patiently to access many long moments ago.

It was then I decided that The Girls would have to be happy with sports bras and swinging free like Tarzan for another few weeks. I gunned the gas and with a cheery wave, mouthed a hearty and very clear, “Fuck you” to the couple getting out of the car.

It’s just my little coded way of saying, “Merry Christmas.”

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