Christmas is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year. The words "peace" and "joy" are thrown around like so much holiday confetti. So why, one wonders, do suicides and even natural deaths spike during the holidays?

People talk of depression and of poor staffing at hospitals. But, as a longtime Christmas-lover, I think I have figured out what makes Christmas the dead-deadliest time of the year.

That's right, folks. I saved my shopping 'til the last minute.

Most years, since I was old enough to earn my own money, I have shopped year-round for the perfect gift for each loved one on my list. Consequently, I had nearly all presents bought by Thanksgiving, at which point, I would set up and decorate a tree, meticulously wrap the presents and place them underneath the best-dressed fake fir in the land. Then I avoided stores, malls, roads and other venues where I might encounter hordes of evil soccer moms clawing each other in competition for the last "It" toy.

For those of us who do our shopping early, Christmas is not a commercial holiday. Each gift is lovingly chosen (or handmade) months ahead of time with the knowledge that is exactly perfect for its recipient. No navigating past kiosks of easy, thoughtless crap that is just SOOOO much more convenient than that perfect gift (which, of course, has been sold out since early November). No fighting with rude people over the last item on the shelf. No crowds. No eager holiday help. And no similarly frustrated shoppers taking their anger out on their hapless fellow motorists. (And no grandmas -- because let's face it, driver dementia is every bit as scary as road rage.)

On the rare occasions when we foray abroad for groceries or perhaps some extra wire ribbon or tissue paper, we greet the carnage with appalled disbelief -- and no small measure of thankfulness that we did our shopping early and can enjoy the holidays cuddled up with our loved ones in front of the fire, with a nice glass of eggnog and our precious sanity.

This year, I began shopping in mid-December and I now know why people kill themselves and keel over from heart attacks. For those who procrastinate, Jesus' birthday present to himself is sending us to the ninth circle of holiday hell. Impossible-to-find wish-list items! Mallgoers who view shopping as a contact sport! Screaming toddlers who may have whooping cough! (Gee, that couldn't possibly be responsible for any holiday old-folk deaths.)

In one week, I have had drivers refuse to let me merge onto a busy highway, then chase me for 20 miles, presumably to teach me that I should crash into the side of the mountain rather than cut two seconds out of their shopping time. I have been smashed into a counter so someone could get her ass through a perfectly wide aisle, presumably to buy the last of whatever precious "find" she thought I was plotting to beat her to. And I've had to wait 20 minutes for assistance because at least four people (all of whom had to have logged at least 50 years in a supposedly civilized society) have never heard of the phrase "first come, first served."

In short, a holiday that I normally enjoy with abandon has this year become an occasion for anxiety. Between decking the halls and trolling the malls, there is no time to roast chestnuts on an open fire while singing holiday tunes and munching on gingerbread. There's no time to relax or celebrate the season of giving with friends and family.

That is sad, because for those of us who aren't religious, that's what Christmas is supposed to be all about.

Proving that karma does exist, after years of cruelly mocking cat owners (or more accurately, cats' bitches), I find myself cohabitating with two cats, having to "tape" my clothes before leaving the house, and feeding them more kitty treats than can possibly be healthy.

I've tried the dog thing and it didn't work out (in no small part because I am horribly allergic to dogs, especially beautiful, sweet golden retrievers). Dogs are too high-maintenance and too friendly. Cats aren't high-maintenance or over-friendly, but then, neither is Ted Kaczynski, and while both are always plotting something, at least I can count on the Unabomber not to poop in my favorite chair if I leave him all by himself for a week.

The thing I've always liked about dogs is that they think they're people. And what I've always hated about cats is that they think they're better than people.

And worse than cats are the "cat people." The ones who pretend their cats are actual children and plaster pictures not just of their cat, but cats at random, over every surface to which they can possibly lay claim. The ones who use words such as "whimsical," "fanciful" and "playful" when words such as "nauseous," "treacly" and "cloying" might be more appropriate. The ones who buy collectible figurines and subscribe to "Cat Fancy." In short, the people who are discovered by police three months after their deaths when neighbors notice a mysterious stench and the absence of the local cat lady. In keeping with the tidy and affectionate nature of the beautiful creatures to whom they've devoted their lives, their remains are half-eaten and covered in cat feces.

But now I, who used to say felines were the spawn of Satan, have joined the ranks of those who check their clothes for fur before leaving the house. I stock up on Whiskas Temptations each and every time I hit Wal-Mart. I announce my return to the kitties in this stupid "crazy bitch talkin' to the cats" voice as soon as I enter the door.

Luckily, I haven't started collecting these atrocities or pretending the cats are people or tormenting acquaintances with charming anecdotes about how my cat got jealous of my new friend and gave me tetanus to show how much she cares (perhaps cats are simply reincarnated wife-beaters?).

And to be fair, Selkie and Deva are extremely sweet, well-raised cats -- even if they produce enough fur in a day to clothe P. Diddy's entourage. There is nothing better than to enter the house and have two non-crotch-sniffing animals come running in to greet you. And to eat breakfast with a kitty curled up at your feet. And to never have to kill your own spiders again.

But the best thing is that I can leave the house for a week and the cats don't freak out. Living with my golden retriever was like adopting a toddler with separation anxiety. In order to leave the house even for work, I pretty much needed to find a sitter for him. Except it is a lot easier and cheaper to line up day care for real children than it is for animals, and, unless you also have a cane and sunglasses, you can forget about just taking your dog with you while you do your shopping.

So while I don't trust them with the furniture and while I'm certainly not going to let any part of my body get close to those claws, the kitties are slowly and surely turning me into a cat owner.

(Don't worry, I said cat owner, not cat person. Keep the rest of those malevolent little beasts away from me!)

Dr. Mephisto lives!!!

His solution to stem-cell controversy? Vast teratoma farms.

Most everyone who knows me well is aware of the fact that I should never be allowed around food-flavored scented things.

Lotions, soaps, colognes, Scratch 'N' Sniff stickers, the Strawberry Shortcake doll I had when I was little (and her cat, her irresistable cat!) ... you name it, I will try to taste it.

In fact, even as an adult, I have been caught licking an "English Pound Cake" candle and accidentally-on-purpose spraying citrus-flavored body mist into my mouth.

So when I bought Origins' "You're Getting Warmer" clay mask, which smells a lot like my favorite holiday treat, gingerbread, I should have known it was only a matter of time before I ended up ingesting my skin-care products.

It was practically accidental -- a bit of warm, gooey mask invaded the corner of my mouth about a week after I bought the product, and without thinking about it, I licked off a smidgen of it. Of course, then the dreadful realization set in that I had just consumed a clay product which doubtless was not FDA-approved for internal use, and I promptly washed my mouth out really, really well (and no, I did not wash it out with my delicious green tea and cucumber antibacterial soap, although believe me, the thought has crossed my mind).

The tragic part in all this is that I am completely unrepentant about eating scrumptious, gingerbread-flavored clay. I mean, the shit is delicious!!! So now, every time I use this mask, I get an insatiable urge to grab a spoon from the kitchen and treat my mouth to a giant dollop of filthy hydrous aluminum silicates. Of course, I resist this urge, but it's torture denying myself what my nose tells me would be a delicious snack.

I must be stopped.

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In other news, check out Tony Pierce's new book.