MoDo: A Tortured Soul

Poor Maureen Dowd. Last week she filled her column with an e-mail from her decidedly conservative pro-Bush brother who cogently articulated the great things about the president’s re-election victory. Maureen told us she is the lone lib (or close to it) in her family. Now she has come out with a column today trashing Christmas, and admitting, again, that she is the only one in her family who feels that way. It’s almost like the woman is crying out for help. She writes:

If I hear “Frosty the Snowman” one more time, I’ll rip his frozen face off.

It’s a scientific fact, or should be, that Christmas music can turn you into a fruitcake. It either sends you into a Pavlovian shopping trance, buying stupid things like the Robosapien, or, if you hear repeated Clockwork-Orange choruses of “Ring, Christmas Bells” drilling into your brain with that slasher-movie staccato, makes you feel as possessed with Christmas spirit as Norman Bates.

I’ve never said this out loud before, but I can’t stand Christmas.

Everyone in my family loves it except me, and they can’t fathom why I get the mullygrubs, as a Southern friend of mine used to call a low-level depression, from Thanksgiving straight through New Year.

I’ve never thought I would feel sorry for this creature, given all the venom she spews at people I respect and things I hold sacred, but I I almost do.