I keep telling myself that I’m not going to be one of those people (i.e., every adult with a family in America) who gets stressed out over the holidays. Nooo, I keep thinking. This is the most wonderful time of the year! Carols and jingle bells and balsam-and-cedar-scented candles, dagnabit! I WILL be happy. But. Too much to do. I’m sullen, overtired, and cranky that we ran out of clean washcloths and I’ve a mountain of laundry to wash. I dried my hair once this week. Once. I won’t tell you how many times I’ve washed it. No, more than that. Don’t be gross. Thursday, I dropped SK off at preschool and raced home (not raced, not raced. I mean, I drove the speed limit, Officer. Please put that ticket book away) to throw together some biscotti for a get-together with friends later that afternoon (it’s really book club, but since I haven’t read a single selection since August because I’ve been settling for the likes of Tina Fey’s Bossypants and Mindy Kaling’s…
