Stress.

It’s not a big word, but it carries the same impact as a category five hurricane. (Meaning: wreaks havoc on arterial veins, pushes over shallow-rooted grip on sanity, breaks synapses off at the transmitters, damages modicum of restraint.)

Stress.

It comes in many forms, but seems to be most prevalent during the holiday season. For example: when hanging outdoor Christmas lights with your husband for the first time.

“Can you hold them up?” Mark snaps.

“I am holding them up. I’m only five-foot-six, for Pete’s sake. How much ‘up’ do you need them?”

“High enough so you don’t…! Arrrgh! Now look what you’ve done. You’ve pulled them all down!

“I pulled them down? How about, you-and-the-freaking-ladder-pulled-them-down, you bulb-breaking baboon...”

“Ahuh.”

Three hours later:

“Okay. They’re beautiful. You’ve got them all hung exactly two-and-one-quarter inches apart. Now, if I might risk stating the obvious, isn’t the plug supposed to be at the other end?”

Stress.

It comes in many shapes and sizes, but seems to be most prevalent when it involves eleven-year-old boys, decorations, and a Christmas tree.

“I can’t reach the top. Can I stand on this branch?”

“No.”

“Can I hang Radar’s bone in the tree?”

“No.”

“Can I have another candy-cane?”

“No.”

“Can we use this Christmas ball as a hacky-sack?”

“No.”

“Can I have another candy-cane?”

“NO!”

“Hey! Why are the ornaments I made hanging at the back?”

Stress.

The effects are sudden and severe and in many cases, directly proportional to the amount of angst you might feel catching the cat doing his business down the heating vent, five minutes before the mother-in-law arrives.

Stress.

Don’t get me wrong. I know the holiday season is supposed to be a festive occasion. Heck, any Christmas advertisement will show you that. But when did it get so complicated? And what do you do when you’ve got the “I’m-on-the-verge-of-pulling-all-of-my-hair-out” Christmas-time blues?

Well, according to my research, here are some stress relief strategies to get you through the holidays:

Commit to making everything in life stress-free. (Perfect. Let’s skip the holidays and go straight to Mother’s Day.)

Remind yourself to relax with a calming mantra. (For example: “I like my hair… I want my hair… I need my hair.”)

Use relaxing scents and aromatherapy to improve your mood. (Kinda defeats the purpose when every time you turn the heat on the house stinks like a litter box.)

De-clutter. Mess creates confusion and the sense that you’ve lost your power. (No, loss of power is when your husband plugs 429 Christmas light strings into a single electrical socket.)

Just say “No.” Refine the art of refusing. (Okay, so I’m willing to give that one a try. In fact, save me the breath and tattoo it on my forehead.)

Stress.

Twas’ the stress before Christmas and out in the shed, rang the sounds of premature balding and me banging my head.

“Mom, I want a Mac laptop for Christmas.”

My eleven-year-old is sitting in the kitchen slurping up Cheerios he’s dumped halfway across the table. “Oh, and a Playstation 2.” I throw him a dish cloth and moan.

“Ah-huh. Is that all?”

I sound like Judge Judy. I’ve been hearing the I-wanna’s, I-gotta’s, and I’ll-die-if-you-don’t-get-me’s for the past six weeks and it’s barely December. According to the twins, the “Twelve days of Christmas” are nothing more than “The last Twelve Days to launch the most virile Christmas List defense.” The only thing I might get wrapped up today is the boys’ closing arguments.

“Any chance you know what a computer or a Playstation costs?” I ask.

“Doesn’t matter what it costs, Mom…” Apparently, he’s factored in the possibility of a hostile defense and has carefully prepared a rebuttal. “I don’t need you to buy them for me… I’m asking Santa.”

“Hey, we get presents from Santa this year?” Indigo snatches the cereal box from his brother’s grip and liberated Cheerios fly from counter to cupboards to closet. I throw him a broom and groan.

“Exactly. What makes you think you’re getting presents from Santa this year?”

Eden throws himself on the table and Indi’s smile turns upside down. “Huh?”

“Santa,” I point to some Cheerios under the dishwasher and continue, “Is someone you no longer believe in, am I right?”

“Ya, but…”

“Ya, but…”

“Ahuh,” I give them a conciliatory smile. “Looks like you’re getting socks and underwear from Mom and Dad this year.”

Eden acts like he’s been physically maimed. “What do you mean? Santa always brings me the present I ask for.” He stomps off to play the X-box Santa brought him last Christmas and Indi buries a frown in his bowl of cereal. My heart drops. This isn’t a problem that started today, it’s a Christmas List crisis that’s been building for years.

So, what do you do when despite your greatest efforts you’re now suffering from post-traumatic commercial-Christmas disease?

It sucks butt, I know.

Every year I’ve shuddered as the gifts and expectations have gotten more expensive, more elaborate, more damaging to the pocket book. This wasn’t what I wanted for my children. Especially when I’m a firm believer that the greatest gift we can give our children on Christmas morning is an appreciation for the simpler things.

So what do you do? Well, this year I’m biting the bullet. I’m cloaking myself in a suit of emotional armor and saying what I’ve wanted to say all those years when the kids were too young to understand… I’m going to tell them, “Christmas is not about getting toys and gimmicks and elaborate presents. Christmas is about giving.”

This year, my husband and I are committed to making a different choice for the holidays. Instead of caving to the commercial hype, we want to do something that fills us with more joy than spoiling our children. We want to give to those in real need this Christmas. Those in need of the same basic necessities that we so often take for granted… food, shelter, clothing, hope.

The best way I know how to do this is through the Kelowna Gospel Mission and I encourage everyone to participate in making this holiday season one that exceeds even the most optimistic expectations. If you go to the website and find their Christmas catalogue,

Kelowna Gospel Mission

you’ll find a fabulous Christmas list where you can choose what you would like to purchase as Christmas gifts this year. Whether you pay for a meal, a week of shelter, a dental check-up, or even work boots, you can be assured that you will be making a significant contribution not just to those less fortunate, but also to our community as a whole.

Do my kids need a new computer? Strangely enough, their computer just died a slow and painful death, so in the spirit of the holidays we might let them spend some of their savings and buy themselves a replacement. That way, they will truly appreciate it. As for Christmas, we’ll be logging on, selecting some gifts for the Gospel Mission, and turning the Christmas tide for our family. It will take some adjusting, but I know we will all be better for it.

The perfect Christmas gift! To order a copy of Arlena’s hilarious book, On the Bright Side… and other rose-coloured catastrophes, please visit:

Red Wagon Services

Free gift wrapping! If your purchase is a gift or you’d like your book signed by the author, please email redwagonservices@gmail.com when you place your order.

For those of you who have followed my column in the past, you probably already know that I am not a dog person. Yes, I have a dog. I feed a dog. I brush a dog. I walk a dog. I sweep up endless dust bunnies of dog. And, despite endless appeals to the contrary, I have even picked up a dog-log (triple gloved, bagged, and gagging, of course). Fecal phobia withstanding, I am not a dog person.

I am a cat person.

Well, let me rephrase that… I used to be a cat person.

Let me introduce you to Happy. Besides having the most ridiculous name that one might give a feline, on most days, Happy spreads anything but “happy-ness.”

Happy is the 30-pound bundle of joy we rescued from the animal shelter. I found his sweet, angelic face on a mug-sheet from the Vernon SPCA and just knew he’d be the perfect partner for my 86-year-old mother-in-law.

“Just look at him, Margery,” I cooed. “Look at his perfect little heart-shaped nose and stunning grey and white markings. He’s sooo handsome! He’d make you a perfect companion!”

We both agreed the pursuit of Happy-ness was worth a drive to Vernon, but when we arrived we were informed that Mr. Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy was no longer up for adoption. Disappointed, and after much deliberation, Margery chose another kitty named Sherriff, a staff member went to collect the fortunate feline, we were handed a meowing, thumping cardboard box, and we went on our way.

It wasn’t until we were back in Kelowna making a stop for cat supplies that I actually took a peek in the box. “Holy crap, Margery!” I spun the box around and looked through the holes in the other end. “This isn’t Sherriff, this is Happy!” I showed her the heart-shaped nose snuffling at the tiny hole and she shook her head.

“That’s impossible. They told us Happy wasn’t up for adoption. Why would they give us Happy?”

“Oh, it’s a sign,” I babbled mercilessly, “Can you not see the cosmic significance? You were meant to have Happy-ness in your life. This wasn’t an accident, Margery, this was destiny! This was fate!”

One week later we get a call from my mother-in-law. Happy isn’t making her happy. Happy is making her miserable.

“I’m sorry dear,” she explained apologetically, “but I’m going to have to take him back to the SPCA. He’s just too much for me to handle. That is, unless you want him?”

And I, being adverse to dismissing or denying anything fated, cosmic, or of universal significance, said what any delusional person might say… “Of course! We’d be happy to have Happy!”

So what is the practical application of having Happy in our lives? How does this eating, sleeping, defecating bundle of joy spread Happy-ness in our home? Well based on this weekend’s display, I’d say, “down the bathroom walls.”

You see, it didn’t take long to discover that in order for Happy to remain Happy, I needed to scoop his litter box with a frequency of obsessive-compulsive proportions. Heaven forbid you forget a poopsie-roll during the mandated bi-hourly scoopings, and he’d flick and shovel litter across the bathroom floor until the offending unit (and two-thirds of the gravel) had clearly left the box.

So what happens when you leave an OCD kitty to fend for himself for a few days? Well, this past weekend when we were out of town and the litter was not attended to, Happy exorcised all the demons from his box, stomped around in them until they were the perfect consistency and then, in a fit of maniacal rage, took his nasty little kitty-cat paws and smeared his fecal frustrations in streaks down the bathroom wall.

Picture: Helter Skelter and the handiwork of a psychotic demon-cat.

Destined for Happy-ness? My arse! Unless there’s a market for fecal paw-painting, would someone like to explain to me the cosmic significance of that?

The perfect Christmas gift! To order a copy of Arlena’s hilarious book, On the Bright Side… and other rose-coloured catastrophes, please visit:

Red Wagon Writing and Publishing Services

Free gift wrapping! If your purchase is a gift or you’d like your book signed by the author, please email redwagonservices@gmail.com when you place your order.

“Moooom,” the front door slams shut and my 11-year-old son throws himself on the couch like he’s lawn-bowling. His delivery is something akin to a death announcement, “You probably don’t want to hear this, but Indi kissed a girl.”

“He what?!” I flip my laptop closed and lock him in the stare of perpetual truth-telling. “Tell me everything you know.”

“I dunno. Sarah said that Alicia said that Carlie said that Amanda said that Indi kissed a girl.” He flashes a fiendish grin. Getting his brother in serious ka-ka is a full-time, full-contact sport.

“So we’re talking a rumour here?” I ask hopefully.

“Nah, he told me it’s true.”

I roll my eyes and begin a series of toe-tapping exercises. Normally, finking on his twin brother is punishable by discipline just short of death. I despise a tattle-taler. I close my eyes and do painful mathematical computations in my head. Keeping track of the boys’ “girlfriends” is about as easy as nailing Jell-O to the wall. “So who’d he kiss?”

“Tasha.”

“Tasha? But I thought his girlfriend was Carlie?”

“No, Carlie’s my girlfriend now.” Eden peels off his socks and throws them at the coffee table.

“I thought you were seeing Kacy?” I shake my head — my synapses are starting to misfire.

“Nah, we switched.”

“But he kissed Tasha?” I scrutinize the flow-chart I’ve compiled for exactly this purpose and give him a blank look. It just doesn’t add up.

“Sheesh Mom,” Eden snorts and addresses me like I’ve just come out of a coma, “His girlfriend was Michelle… but he dumped her so he could go out with Kacy… but she dumped him, so he kissed Tasha… and now he’s back with Kacy again.” He slides off the couch and heads for the computer. “Get with the program, Mom.”

“Get with the program?” My heart flips a double-beat and I make a mental note to file for an unlisted number. The last thing I need is to be charged with aiding and abetting the de-flowering of an 11-year-old girl’s garden. “Nobody answer the door or the phone,” I yell panicked. “Her parents are going to kill me!”

“Kill who?” Indi has one foot in the door, the other apparently lodged somewhere up my backside.

“Kill you! What are you doing kissing girls? You can’t be messing with girls, Indigo. Do you have any idea how complicated your life is going to be?”

“Huh?!” He nails his still-tied runners to the back of the closet and heaves his backpack on the floor.

“You kiss a girl and you’ll be a target for at least the next thirty years! Girls are complex, complicated creatures, son. There’s drama and emotions and expectations and jealousy and demands and game-playing and manipulation and guilt-trips and drama and emotions and expectations and… and…” I take a deep breath and wipe the foam and drool from my lips. “Don’t do it, son. Don’t be a slave to love!”

Indi gives a full-body shake and stomps to the kitchen to beat the “tale” off his brother.

“Trust me, I know. I’m a girl!”

So what do you do when your pre-adolescents think gob-swapping is a legitimate after-school activity? Hell if I know. But according to my husband, the “curiosity” kiss is really nothing to be concerned with.

“The boys are just curious,” he says without looking up from the paper. “I mean, there was no ‘over-the-sweater’ action or anything.”

“No over-the-sweater… what?” I throw myself on the floor and will myself to breath. “No over-the-sweater action? How would you know?”

“He told me, yesterday.”

“Indi told you about the kiss?” I couldn’t feel more left out if I was an Eskimo at a toga party.

“Ya, he asked me not to tell you because you get too…ummm… emotional?” He chooses his words carefully.

“Really.” I pull myself up from the kitchen tile and brush myself off. Got to give the kid some credit. Looks like he might have us girls figured out after all.