Why Lie? I Miss the Fakakta Holiday Mess

I miss it, you know.

The clusterf*ck of the holidays.

I miss walking into my local mall and seeing the overly exaggerated bells, red bows, and Santa’s sleigh roped off, neatly tucked under the escalators—And, of course, can’t forget the good old menorah hanging out with Susan at the Customer Service desk.

I want you to know I still have, in a box somewhere, the $47 carved candle I shamelessly busted my father’s balls over three years in a row. If you didn’t own a carved candle from whatever mall kiosk you were obsessing over at the time, were you even alive? That candle was a status symbol.

At the time, I had no clue the emptiness I felt every time I walked out empty-handed had anything to do with “childhood trauma,” shadows, or Mercury Retrograde. We didn’t throw words like that around back then. I just knew there was this longing for something. And honestly, I had the time to long for it.

I’d sit in the car on the ride home, dreaming about what it would be like to own it. I could describe it, even justify why I wanted it, why it mattered. That candle, for all its uselessness, was pretty. Simply staring at it felt... selective. Like I’d chosen something unique, something handmade and pure.

Nobody cared if it was made in China, Mexico, or the f*cking Philippines. It was handmade, which, in our heads, completely justified the price tag.

I remember feeling this weird mix of happiness and confusion on the way home. Would I ever light the candle? And if I did, how would I keep it from losing its shape? But those thoughts didn’t matter because the real mission was next: stopping at Blockbuster. My focus shifted immediately to running straight to the New Releases wall, praying whatever movie I was dying to watch was there.

At the time, I didn’t know my obsessive focus was called “manifesting.” All I knew was this: I had hope. Optimism. I could practically feel that movie waiting for me, and somehow, it always was.

These days, it’s all... numb. Even manifesting feels like work. Now you’ve gotta check your horoscope twice and make sure Mercury’s not in retrograde before you even dare to dream.

But I miss it. And I know I’m not the only one.

The noise. The chaos. The traffic outside malls and at gas stations. Even though I don’t celebrate Christmas, I’ve always felt like I was born with the soul of a mini Santa Claus.?

Lights? I’m obsessed. The “spirit of Christmas”? Sorry, but how can you not feel it? You don’t have to be Catholic or Christian to get it. You just have to be human.

Back then, you could feel the vibrational shift in the air—like the world was buzzing with possibility. And yeah, maybe it was because everything wasn’t about perfect Instagram posts or whatever tchotchke Amazon could deliver in two hours (wrong item, wrong size, of course). It was about the fakaktaness—the organized chaos where people managed to connect.

Consider Black Friday, for instance. Just two decades ago, opening stores on Thanksgiving was almost considered taboo. People would wait until midnight because traditions were important. And look, if there’s one thing that Jews excel at, it’s upholding traditions—and shopping as if their lives depend on it.

But the point is— Friday morning was for the veterans—Hundreds of people stampeding toward the same aisle, each thinking they were the only genius heading there. You’d scream names, hoping someone you knew would hear you over the madness—all while grabbing a silver or gold necklace marked 75% off (which, come March, you’d discover was still priced at $19.99, but I digress). Meanwhile, you’re juggling a stack of items you weren’t even sure you needed.

And yet, somehow, everyone always found each other—usually clutching a bag from Aeropostale.

Now that I think about it, what was the obsession with Aeropostale? God only knows. But if you didn’t hit up Gap, Spencer’s, Contempo Casuals, Sears, JC Penney, Macy’s, and a quick drive-by at the food court, did you even mall?

Was it nuts? Absolutely. But it was our nuts.

And no one cared who you were. Black, white, Asian, Republican, gay, straight, schlepping three kids under six—we were all just trying to grab the last Furby and make it home before Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. And if you didn't? No big deal. No one knew; Cause you know what? People were busy making dinner and minding their own business.

Was it perfect? Not in the least.

Families fought. Couples divorced.

Kids got lost in the mall. Kids got abducted in malls.

Crimes happened. Wars happened.

But we survived. We respected the people running the country (even if we didn’t agree with them), and news anchors reported facts without spinning their agendas into the mix. Families could fight at the table without someone secretly recording it for “evidence.” Republicans and Democrats alike celebrated the holidays because, when it came to the Christmas spirit, Saint Nick always got the final word—and the most votes.

These days, it’s different. No lines. No crowds. No kvelling with strangers about which toy was impossible to find. Everything’s a click away, and before you know it, there’s a package on your doorstep. Fast? Yes. Meaningful? Not so much.

We’ve traded connection for convenience.

Opinions for common sense.

Diversity for compassion and meaningful conversation.

Back then, the chaos forced us to slow down, even if just for a second. You’d catch someone’s eye in the madness, share a laugh, and wish them Happy Holidays without overthinking it. And honestly? That’s what I miss the most—being human. Not second-guessing every word or action, even while being constantly told to “be authentic” and “be bold.”

The contradiction? The hypocrisy? It’s deafening. And frankly, it’s exhausting.

So this year, I’m bringing back the organized chaos. The humanity. And yes, the so-called “authenticity” everyone demands—even if it steps on a few toes along the way. Because the truth is, being real sometimes means stepping right into the dog sh*t of that one person who loves to call out every other dog owner for not picking up after their pet—while their own dog is busy dropping a fresh pile on the sidewalk.

I’ll bake cookies, even if the first batch turns out like hockey pucks. I’ll light the menorah and let those candles flicker, reminding me that miracles don’t have to be perfect. And yes, I’ll string up lights—because whether it’s bulbs on a tree or the glow of the shamash, this season is about bringing light into the world.

The holidays aren’t about being perfect. They’re about showing up, embracing the mess, and remembering that the magic is in the chaos.

So here’s to the imperfect mess.

L’chaim to that.

Debbie