My dear friend Trish hates Christmas.

At least she says so, and I’ll admit she does a pretty convincing job of it. But every year I drag her to the luminaria at the Desert Botanical Garden, along with her daughter Abbie, who is now 15-going-on-16. The two of them are actually on speaking terms, which is amazing given Abbie’s age and a testament to each of them.

But there’s one area where they’ve long disagreed.

Apparently the Christmas hate skipped a generation. The other night, after we all almost wet our pants (ok, maybe I actually did, a little) over Sophie air tromboning with the jazz band at the garden, Abbie spent the night with us, and I asked her how she feels about Christmas.

In that way that only a teenager can be so wisely economical with her words, Abbie said only this: “I love Christmas so much that once I was Santa for Halloween.”

I thought about Trish and her mom — and how much I share her mom’s holiday obsessions — as I stamped out my thousandth (or so) sugar cookie star over the weekend. Trish might not like Christmas, but she’s hardly hard-hearted. This will sound corny, but she’s the kind of friend — considerate, wise, a good listener, a hard worker – who makes you feel like it’s Christmas every day. I totally get why she doesn’t like the pomp, though I am tempted to decorate a little tree and leave it on her doorstep, if only for Abbie.

Somewhere, in the  midst of the holiday excess (and I mean excess in so many ways) there has got to be a happy medium.

(Insert Santa belly laugh telling me how full of shit I am.)