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Two weeks ago I watched helplessly while my friend’s dog was attacked (again) by an unleashed one. The owner either lives in La-la Land (you know, the shiny happy place where nothing bad ever happens) or enjoys seeing his strong, fast beast tear into the necks of sweet, friendly, leashed dogs. Not only did NO ONE bother to come out of their homes to see why my friend was screaming “NO! Not again!” over and over while trying to protect her dog, but also the dog owner did nothing more than lamely apologize then yell at his dog repeatedly–expecting what, a sincere apology from the instinctual chap? What he should have done was begged forgiveness for his neglect, offered to pay for the vet visit, and then rubbed raw meat on his own neck and let his precious dog dig in. I’m incensed–can you tell?

Ok, so we can all agree that what happened was unconscionable, horrible, and worth the rant, right? But the proverbial “they” say that whatever angers us about others is because we somehow share the same weaknesses about which we complain. Now, I don’t own dogs (love them, but don’t have time to care for them properly), so I’m not a leash-law-breaker. But I do own cats, and I’ll admit that I could do a much better job of keeping their litter boxes pristine. I’m also in the business of raising children, and I do let them run off-lead on a regular basis. They have even bitten other children a time or two, but that was pre-teething, and I’m sure no skin was broken. Animal Control refused to come out (I convinced them that no, I do not bite my children), and no friends were lost in the aftermath (their kids were biters too).

And as a welcome side-bit: the guy who allowed his Dobie to walk freely turned out to be an upstanding guy who brought a body guard with him when he apologized, paid the vet bill, and offered to clean up my friend’s dog’s doo-doo for the next five years (I jest). Apparently he is an animal lover who houses multiple dogs, fish, cats and the like. Seems he just can’t say “No” when someone decides they can no longer care for their own pets. Sans-leash? Still scratching my head about that one. But at least he’s not a jerk who thrills at the sight of his dog tearing into an unsuspecting canine out for a simple piddle.

I’m mulling this word, “attack” because of what happened, but also because the next day I would be reminded that my friends and family have been viciously attacked by cancer. I’m even more incensed about this because there is no way to mitigate the reality with humor–no way to find perfect words to comfort a friend besieged by a brain tumor–no way to comfort my remaining sister over the loss of her twin–no way to comprehend the insane losses of children to strange and aggressive cancers–no way, whatsoever, to embrace the fear my friend feels every time he goes for a CAT scan to confirm that the beast has been beaten.

My friend’s dog, said the vet, was saved by her collar. Early-detection saves some with cancer. Miracles rescue others. Too many lose their battles. Our only hope is that this “Race for a Cure” starts being more about cancer and less about “riders” of profit for big companies who want to look benevolent, or potential political platforms from which moralistic mandates are levied or launched under the guise of fiscal responsibility. Like the guy who takes in strays but doesn’t leash them, isn’t it time for a bit less feigned ignorance or trumped up morality? How about a healthy dose of simply doing what is right?

In the fantasy world that exists in my head, my 20s were going to be all about posh sophistication. I was going to use things like cocktail shakers and porcelain tiered serving platters to host lavish events, with a combination of new acquaintances and my regular group of friends in attendance. We would all share humorous and fascinating stories about our life adventures, then settle down for a classy bottle of wine and general camaraderie, and snack on bite-sized crostini. On occasion, we would visit trendy restaurants and coffee bars, where we would eat lavish food and marvel in each other’s clever wit and general awesomeness. There would be no debates about politics or religion, because we would agree on everything and all be in the same place in life.

It was going to be something like Sex and the City, minus the promiscuity.

It was going to be something like the many parties I read about every month in Real Simple.

I was going to “entertain” regularly, and I was going to be damn good at it, thankyouverymuch.

Based on every home-hunting or wedding-registry-suggestion-list I’ve ever seen, I would argue that I’m not the only person who has had this fantasy. Realtors are always talking about having the space to “entertain,” and couples are always falling in love with a place because “we can picture ourselves entertaining on this deck!”

But I ask you–how many people do you know who actually do this? Obligatory family holidays don’t count.

It seems that most of my city friends are too poor–due to high rent payments–or too cramped–thanks to small square footage–to host much of anything, while my suburban friends are too spread apart, worn out, or otherwise focused to plan much. People generally also seem to have a very limited geographical radius within which they will travel, so offering to host such an event isn’t necessarily effective either.

So where’s the disconnect?

This observation became particularly evident during this holiday season. For the last 11 years, my family and I have traveled south each Christmas to visit my siblings and their children. We began this pilgrimage when my eldest niece was born, as it was much easier for us to come to my sister’s newborn than for her to come to us. And so there was a cosmic shift in our holiday universe, and we changed what we had always done. It’s never felt quite like Christmas to me there, though whether that is due to warmer weather, lack of family traditions, or simply my maturation, I’ve never been able to say.

This year, due to a combination of circumstances, we didn’t head south. This, I thought, was our chance to reclaim Christmas. It was an opportunity to start our own traditions at the same time we were starting our own two-person family. I had grandiose plans.

What I also had, apparently, was an utter lack of follow-through.

I had most of two weeks’ vacation, but we only did one thing I would consider to be “Christmassy.” On Christmas Eve and Christmas day, all of our friends were busy or out of town, generally following their own longstanding family traditions. So as always, big families reunited and reenacted their must-have Christmas moments. Most of those friends, in some way or other, followed the traditions their parents established back when they were kids. Maybe some friends with children started their own.

And for me, as the holiday passed uneventfully, I began to wonder what it is for me that makes Christmas, Christmas. Is it the present exchanges? The holiday cookies? Visiting festive light displays? Caroling (really, who actually goes caroling)?

What would it take for me to feel like Christmas? What traditions should I start? What makes something a tradition in the first place? When do the traditions become the responsibility of the next generation? How big can traditions be with just the two of us? How do the posh parties of my imagination elude me?

So we’re going to try a little gathering for New Years’ Eve. You know, to take the pressure off. Make it a laid-back, rum-enhanced soiree. Nothing too big. No traditions required. But dammit, there will be crostini.

Dashing Gray is a 20-something lifelong learner who works in higher education and embraces her semi-yuppie, child-free life. Recently engaged, she spends way too much time in local coffee shops drinking high-calorie espresso drinks and blogging out the many questions of life and weddings. Because life is never just black and white, learn about her adventures navigating — and embracing — The Beauty of Gray.