“Here’s the thing,” he said, by way of apologizing for getting snippy with me the day before. “It’s just that when you are rushing around doing all that holiday stuff, you look so miserable.”

My jaw dropped, then my lips pursed.

“I’M FESTIVE!” I announced, shocked that anyone could challenge my holiday cheer — be it for a birthday, Halloween or my favorite avalanche of joy, Christmas.

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” he said, sighing. “You’re festive, all right. But you just don’t look happy.”

I flashed back to the scene last Sunday, the day before Halloween – me racing around like a crazy woman, looking everywhere for my black and white oilcloth tableclothes, rinsing pumpkin seeds, baking cookies, making soup, clearing real cobwebs and hanging fake ones, all while trying desperately to clear the piles that crop up on every empty surface in our house as soon as I turn my back. And not being very nice about any of it.

I hate it when Ray’s right. It’s true. I’m festive — with a vengeance.

“OK, I’ll try to look like this throughout the holiday season,” I said, flashing my biggest, fakest courtesy smile.

“That’s better,” Ray replied weakly.

I do know what he means; I’ve been thinking about it, even before that little intervention. I need to cut back on the holiday cheer. And so there will be no “Homemade Fucking Christmas” this year (which involved the goal of making every single gift I gave, then beating myself up when I failed); no push to create a half-dozen varieties of fruit-infused vodka and tequila (though I did just come into a box of grapefruit, so maybe one batch); and I promise not to try to make my own latkes.

OK, who am I fooling? I do have plans for a tamale day, a full-sized Christmas tree and my first attempt at a Hanukkah brisket. What can I say? Old habits die hard.

I do promise to do it all with a giant smile on my face.