Last Christmas I gave you my heart. But the very next day you gave it away.
(Beat it, Wham!) Ahem.
Last Christmas I wrote a column about depression during a broken holiday season. How my heart shattered like a shoddy ornament. I put up my tree only three days prior to Christmas 2019, then promptly tore it down three days after. My loyal dog Clyde died just days before Christmas, my Fantz clan fam was battling World War Whatever Number We’re On and my kid was away for the holiday.
I gorged on pork tacos, watched dumb shit on the tele and sobbed into my plastic glass of boxed wine. “Next year is going to be a damn gem,” I said, weeping.
“lololololol,” said 2020, rolling on the floor like a fool.
But I made it! And I’m dreaming of the day that vaccine can sparkle my arm with its magical faerie dust. I’ve grown accustomed to quarantine (perhaps a smidge agoraphobic), my sciatica has adjusted to working from the couch and my kid, of late, had only been screaming for a quarter of the online learning day. Inching to victory, pals.
When Thanksgiving rolled around I started to get super-duper holly motherfrosty jolly. I prepared a feast alone, loaded up a plate and sat across the table from the kid’s 4-foot unicorn. The next day I Griswolded the shit out of things. We erected the tree with a whole sugarplumload of glee and had Elvis’ Christmas Album on loop. We laughed and danced and didn’t even give a good goddamn that the bottom half dimmed out halfway through.
Santa’s presents were all secured and wrapped a week before Christmas. (Never have I ever been this early.) I dressed the pretty presents with care, swathing them in ribbon and curly-cues like Diana Ross locks. We’ve been watching “Elf” and various Grinch versions in circles, I bought the Michael Buble Christmas album and I stocked up on Soy Nog to splash into my pint glass of spiced rum.
It’s a Festivus miracle in here.
To add to the cheer, we’ve been fostering two family dogs since August. I wasn’t ready for dogs in the home again, with newly procured sparkly white wing chairs and a cream rug for my living room — but mostly because I still missed my Clydey boy terribly.
But now Ushi, a suburban doodle of some sort, and Diego, a Scotchi (Scottish Terrier/Chihuahua), have joined the Fantz Pants festive abode. These lovely canines fill our days with snuggles and entertainment as they roll in snow and mud, drag in dead leaves and wipe their wet dog fur (and asses) all over my new rug. The joy these pups have brought to this home offers a lovely serotonin drunk. Ushi is a spitting image of Sandy from “Annie” with his dirty-blonde curls that bounce and shine like gold and Diego is a tiny little scruff with a gray-tinged frazzled mohawk and eyelashes for days.
I’m happy. WTF. I didn’t think I would be happy even just a month ago. But I’m going to ride this high like a clambake in Matthew McConaughey’s Lincoln. We narrowly survived a pandemic year, we’re about to boot that fruitcake from the White House and with the vaccine, I see a light at the end of the beer bong.
So now we shall celebrate! We will have the hap-hap-HAPPIEST Christmas since Tiny Tim rode on the shoulders of Ebenezer fucking Scrooge. Happy holidays!