A strong contender for this week’s column was the ultimate fictional holiday showdown between Seinfeld’s Festivus, the holiday for the rest of us, and the O.C.’s Chrismukkah, the pairing of Jesus and Moses, the superteam. Both are solid holidays, both created by television geniuses of equal measure, Frank Costanza and Seth Cohen.

There are two versions of my holiday season. The first is the easy one, the one where Thanksgiving was so amazing that the Brady Bunch would be jealous. That one is, in fact, a lie.

The second is the one where I admit that I didn’t do jack shit all throughout the break. Thanksgiving dinner consisted of a slice of wheat bread, two celery stalks, spaghetti, an old fortune cookie that I found in my mother’s purse and four peach bellinis.

Peach bellini number three was seceded by an earth-shattering and mighty impressive belch. Sometimes I feel like a middle-aged truck driver. But with boobies. I adhered, of course, to the old Rick family adage, “Never pay more than $6.99 for a bottle of wine.”

I had a dysfunctional family way before it was cool, ages before those endearingly foul-mouthed Osbournes made their MTV debut. The people I consider immediate relatives have inspired enough material in my 21 years to adapt into an indie sleeper hit and at least one sequel.

Pop culture loves a dysfunctional family; it makes for great comedy. It’s always the same slapstick madness – as Ryan Atwood once said, “There’s drinking, crying, cops. It must be Christmas.”

Maybe grandma drove into the living room again, Uncle Benji has been spending his days counting cards at poker tables since he lost his job or someone’s sister finally came home from college, only to reveal that she dropped out after freshman year, continued to collect tuition money from the parental units, and used said tuition money on a little nip/tuck. She is now waitressing somewhere outside of Hollywood.

None of that has ever occurred in my household, actually, though the nip/tuck situation is eminently possible. The end of every TV episode/movie/short story about a holiday gone wrong ends with the whole pack contentedly sitting by an open fire, reminiscing over the good old days. Sometimes in real life, a can of cranberry sauce can’t magically turn things around.

Thinking back on it as I was returning to Davis, I came to realize that the point of me coming home for Thanksgiving in the first place wasn’t to consume massive amounts of food until I wanted to be put out of my misery with a .38 Smith & Wesson Special. It was to be with my eccentric mother and eccentric dog in our eccentric house. Even if we just sat around doing nothing and didn’t go through the motions of putting the Hallmark in the holiday.

So there you have it – I descend from a line of nut jobs and spend most of my holidays watching bad Adam Sandler movies on TV. As impressed as I am by shiny objects, I’ve gotten pretty used to living without tinsel. We roll like Jews on December 25th – we take advantage of what’s open, that being the movie theater and any given Chinese restaurant. Or drive really fast because there are no cops on the road.

We may never be contenders for the first family of Stepford, but it’s probably not something I would want to be remembered by. If you’re imperfect, embrace it. The people who want to say something about it probably aren’t worth knowing. Don’t waste your time kissing up to your neighbors if they’re gonna talk smack about you anyway.

Life is too short to keep up with the Joneses. As much as I’d like to, it’s also too short to drag them down to your level. Therefore, you might as well focus on having a damn better time than them. So ace those finals, add a little extra, by which I mean a lot of, peppermint schnapps to your hot chocolate and spin a dreidel with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. Celebrate the holidays in whatever whacked-out way you’d like. If it involves an aluminum pole and an airing of grievances, more power to you.

MICHELLE RICK formally invites you over for boxed wine, Wheat Thins and a showing of the Water Boy on December 25th, since she has jury duty on the 24th. Get at her at marick@ucdavis.edu.

I know last Thursday must have been miserable for you. A day spent weeping over pumpkin pies and drowning sorrows in gravy and stuffing. Well, my friends, wipe those tears away. Lo and behold, today I have a brand new story for your reading pleasure.

Unfortunately, this will be your last dose of me for a few weeks, so enjoy it as you struggle through these days ahead. Finals week is upon us.

Last Sunday I was flying here from Burbank Airport at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning, when suddenly the plane convulsed. We had hit a slight patch of turbulence.

My first immediate thought was that the cabin walls would collapse around me, sealing me in a fiery coffin as we plummeted through the clouds to meet cold earth and twisted steel in a final embrace.

My second immediate thought was that if I were immolated in a plane crash, at least I wouldn’t have to take any more finals.

Moral of the story, I really hate planes.

Anyway, it’s that time of the quarter where people go huddle in the library study lounge like refugees, sweating bullets as they cram those last bits of information into their brains.

Or so I hear.

I’ve never really studied for finals, or classes at all. (Advanced moon-rocket science has always been a piece of cake for me.)

I always get a kick out of people studying at midnight on a Saturday. I don’t think it’s worth it. My advice to you is simple: Forsake your studies and go hang out with your friends.

Before you scoff at me, let me lay some justifications down.

First of all, at this point in the quarter, you either know what you’re doing or you don’t.

“But Will!” you might exclaim, “I know I’ve been binge-drinking all year. I failed the midterm. I ditch class twice a week but I swear to God, if I get an A on the final, I’ll be all right! And I know I can do it!”

Props to you if you can, but from personal experience, your study habits are your study habits and they’re set in stone. I’ve tried to fool myself by saying, “I’ll really do it this time. I’ll read an hour each night!”

The guy in the depths of my head usually greets this notion with a dismissive wanking gesture. He’s usually right, too.

Don’t waste your weekend nights studying. You pay for more than classes here. You buy the college experience as well. Besides, with all these damned tuition hikes, you might as well have a good time while you’re at it.

One of my good friends is graduating this quarter, a self-proclaimed legend of Davis who graced the front page of The Aggie last year for being drunk on a roof on Picnic Day. Ironically, it was in an article about students drinking less. Go figure.

Anyway, as a fifth year, I’ve been steadily losing allies here in Davis, friends who have weathered four years of schooling with me suddenly swept away by a diploma and a commencement speech.

Soon enough I’m going to have to find some girlfriends or a drug habit to help me pass the time. (Preferably the first, although the latter doesn’t sound so bad if you know a guy).

So instead of sequestering myself in the library, I’ll be enjoying these last weeks before another batch of close friends leaves town. A lot of you still have a few years to go, but I’ll tell you first hand, it goes a hell of a lot quicker than you think. Get out there and drink beer with your friends. Your GPA won’t really suffer. Books will sit on a shelf, friends won’t. (Maybe they will. That’s a bad metaphor.)

A night spent with your buddies drinking whiskey and watching The Good, The Bad and the Ugly will probably be remembered fondly, unless you go too heavy on the whiskey, in which case your buddies will remember it fondly for you.

A night spent watching the clock and drinking taurine-flavored synergy drinks in the 24-hour study lounge might give you premature gray hair and a heart attack at 40.

Whiskey and The Good, The Bad and the Ugly? Or gray hair and a heart attack. Hmmm.

Well, I’ve sold myself on the idea. A bottle of Old Crow and the greatest western of all time it is.

As Tuco Benedicto Pacífico Juan María Ramírez aka The Rat aka The Ugly would say, “There are two kinds of people in the world, my friend: Those with a rope around the neck, and the people who have the job of doing the cutting.”

As William Christmas-Farnsworth Long aka Billy Christmas aka The Golden Raccoon aka me, I’ll say something along these lines:

There are two kinds of people in the world, my friends: Those with flash cards in their hands at midnight, and the people who have the pleasure of drinking PBR and riding past the library.

WILL LONG wants you to know William Christmas-Farnsworth Long is, in fact, his real name. He has a birth certificate to prove it. Also, he was born on 4/20. Drop him a hollar-note at wclong@ucdavis.edu.

Mike Dorsey’s article on the impending closure of the Davis Student Cooperative, one of three co-op houses on campus, presented the Aggie readership with as fair a picture of the situation as I can imagine. As a longtime resident of Davis, and one who has both close and intimate familiarity with the history of co-operatives in the town, I was pleased to see that Dorsey’s article stayed away from pushing an agenda for either side of the issue.

I employ the conceit of scare quotes there because I don’t really feel there is a divide here – unless people want there to be one.

Unfortunately, former DSC resident Derek Downey doesn’t seem prepared to uphold the principles of cooperation that once allowed him to enjoy a very convenient and, I will comfortably assume, affordable housing situation while a student at UC Davis. Rather, he seems more inclined to view the closure as an offensive strike against the co-ops and the co-op lifestyle.

Having lived in the Domes community myself, and having been involved with the Solar Community Housing Association houses in town, I’m well aware of how cost effective co-op housing can be, as well as how pleasant it can be to attend and participate in the nightly community dinners and regular work parties.

I’m also well aware of how quickly and assuredly, for some mind-boggling reason, co-op housing environments can fall into disrepair. While recent years have seen a considerable improvement and maintenance of the Domes and other houses on campus and around town, the SCHA has also lost the Homestead Housing Cooperative – which had long been a source of headache and strain on the organization due to poor management and minimal efforts at upkeep by the residents. I nearly moved into the community in 1997, but quickly backpedaled upon seeing the conditions of what, at the time, was only a one-year-old property.

Downey, from what I can tell, isn’t willing to accept that members of co-ops must not only cooperate with one another, but also with the parent organizations that make the co-op lifestyle possible. In the case of DSC, this means the office of Student Housing and, by extension, the Regents of the University of California. So the slippery slope implication that he presents by asking “why stop there?” toward the end of the article can only be taken seriously if campus co-op residents fail to uphold their end of the bargain. Or if the university administration engages in overt and willful efforts and forces closures for no good reason.

Co-op resident Sarah Raridon would also do well to recognize that the unique nature of a co-op is intentionally self-supporting, and this includes regular preventative care of the facilities. If the residents allow infrastructure to break down, repair and maintenance become more costly. Neither are mandated upgrades to be seen as spurious assaults on the co-op lifestyle. They are simply things that must be done if that lifestyle is to be preserved.

The university does not have an unlimited supply of funds to maintain the co-ops’ upkeep, regardless of how many residents are housed in them. If we lose one of the major houses on campus, that will certainly be a source of pain and loss for thousands of residents of Davis and alumni who have lived in and visited DSC over the years since it opened – myself included. But it does no good to view the situation as an us-against-them battle. With cooperation, we’re all in it together.

By June of next year, faculty and students who are new mothers will have to go somewhere else to use a breast pump.

New mothers and mothers-to-be on campus rely on services from the campus’ breastfeeding support program like the support group, lactation specialist and breast pumps. In June, however, the lactation specialist and hospital-quality breast pumps will disappear due to budget cuts.

The program’s operating budget totals $12,000, most of which pays for the specialist’s salary, and the rest of which is operating expenses. If the $9,300 salary for the specialist is removed, the $2,600 to maintain the pumps and facilities should stay.

Campus custodians already maintain the facilities. Although the lactation specialist and an intern maintain the pumps, someone else can be found to fill this role for a smaller price.

This portion of the budget is extremely insignificant compared to the budget as a whole. Cutting $5,000 here and $10,000 there does not make a difference. The university would have to make a countless number of these smaller cuts to amount to anything substantial.

Furthermore, this decision may turn away mothers-to-be and current new mothers from the campus. By not providing pumps, although the rooms will still be available, the campus is risking losing students and faculty. The university is required to provide new mothers a private place to breastfeed; there are 28 locations on campus. But having the convenience of on-campus pumps allows these individuals to continue their day without interruption or the added stress of leaving campus and returning to class or work.

For faculty and students, the need to use these services and facilities needs to be factored in with the demands of work and classes. Eliminating the pumps will make the daily routine for new mothers more difficult to manage while on campus. They may have to make special arrangements to leave campus or take time off.

Only one in 10 executive management positions is filled by a woman, according to a UC Davis Graduate of Management study. The duties of childbearing and motherhood certainly factor into an employer’s decision to retain or let go of a pregnant employee. Breastfeeding is a necessary part of raising a newborn. These duties need to be accommodated for.

Although mothers working at UC Davis reported in an earlier article they are happy with the campus’ policies, this small cut mirrors the problematic options female employees face across the nation when they become pregnant.

If campuses took more action to help faculty and students who are new mothers, more ease during the workday or class schedule would foster a more comfortable campus environment.

Monday’s dialogue with the chancellor revealed a lot about those who participated.

Many of the student protestors who were arrested at Mrak Hall last month showed up, shared their personal stories and asked tough questions of the administrators present. They waited patiently to speak and didn’t hesitate to criticize Chancellor Linda Katehi, Provost Enrique Lavernia and Associate Vice Chancellor Kelly Ratliff.

This was a commendable move on their part. By showing up and participating, the students proved they are not protesting for the sake of protesting – they truly are committed to their cause.

The presence of the student protestors also demonstrated their willingness to work through both official and unofficial avenues. As we have argued in recent editorials, while there certainly is value in civil disobedience, there is also value in working through more formal venues.

Administrators, for their part, handled the meeting well. Katehi in particular rolled with the punches, easily responding to difficult questions.

Whether rightly or wrongly, Katehi has been accused in the not-so-distant past of being evasive. On Monday night, however, she was notably forthright and honest in her answers. When asked about her salary, she explained her belief that compensation is based on the going rate for one’s academic discipline as well as the market rate for the job itself. When asked why she didn’t talk to the protestors directly when they were protesting, she said simply, “I responded when I felt it was appropriate.”

No concrete gains were achieved with Monday’s event, but it was an important step toward lasting change. Students and others were directed toward resources they may not have seen otherwise. Administrators heard firsthand the impact of the cuts they have made and had to face those who were feeling the pain.

We encourage this type of exchange and hope to see more of it very soon.

It seems like every time I sit down to write this column, I’m planning on writing one thing only to change my mind.

Originally, I was going to write about my relationship with my father. A conservative-Creationist-anti-abortion-Palin-loving Republican to my liberal-atheist-pro-choice-socialist-leaning feminist, my dad and I can always find something to argue about. Despite our good relationship, these arguments tend to end badly, usually with someone yelling that the other one hates America.

The plan was to write about an argument that ended well over Thanksgiving break. It was heartwarming; I wish you had been there. The column was going to finish with my dad and I discovering our similarities and learning to celebrate our differences, and maybe even hugging it out.

And then I heard about the “womyn born womyn” movement.

Although not very strong currently, “womyn born womyn” is a “feminist” reasoning that excludes transwomen (people who are born male but identify as female) from women’s-only spaces. The issue hit it big (as big as an issue in the world of feminism can be) when the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival made it clear since its inception in the 1980’s that guests were only to be “womyn born womyn.” This meant that transwomen and intersex people were not welcome to attend.

So, lucky readers, instead of hearing about my dad and I bonding over our mutual distrust of the government (and our love of deep-fried turkey), you’re going to hear more about injustices within a community that ostensibly does not tolerate them. At the 1991 festival, a transwoman named Nancy Burkholder was told to leave because security considered her to be “still a man.”

Ah, yes. Exclusion: the foundation of feminism. Instead of taking the opportunity provided by the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival to encourage sisterhood, the “feminists” running the show instead built a whole new hierarchy by reducing other women down to their sexual organs. Because if anyone knows what it’s like to be reduced to genitalia, it’s feminists, amirite?

While the current state of “womyn born womyn” is definitely in the minority, it can’t be ignored that many people, including feminists, still harbor prejudices against members of the transgender and intersex communities.

Maybe you disagree with me. Really, what is wrong with saying that only people with the “womyn” experience can attend a concert, or receive services specifically for women? And maybe you’re right to disagree because, as we all know, there is only one female experience, and only people born with vaginas know what it’s like.

Sarcasm aside, this issue boils down to gender and what that means. As a feminist, I was always under the impression that the characteristics attributed it was the basis for the women’s rights movement.

Are women inherently lesser than men because of their anatomy? I think we can all say that no, we aren’t. So, then, is a transwoman, or an intersex person who identifies as a woman, any less than a person born with the equipment?

Cisgendered people (those whose gender identity matches the sex they were assigned at birth) may have a difficult time understanding trans issues and the trans condition – I know I did, at first. But this is no excuse not to try. Think of the people in your life who have been born into gendered ambiguity – would you deny them their identity because of their junk?

HALEY DAVIS thinks being a feminist means not being an asshole. She can be reached at hrdavis@ucdavis.edu.