It happens every Christmas without fail: After unwrapping presents, one of the kids figures out his or her load is smaller than everyone else's, and the tears start to flow. Even though you emptied your checking account and stayed up half the night wrapping presents, you do a quick comparison and realize the kid is right; there is an imbalance.
The ensuing depression is contagious. No matter the reason, if your kids are crying on Christmas, you feel like a failure.
This year, however, as it all began to unravel, I wasn't all that fazed. I didn't even reach for a drink. Before the big day, I had tried something different: I consumed a steady stream of Saint Vitus and Charles Bukowski. And while I'm not exactly sure why, that did the trick.
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