Dear Whipped Pumpkin Pie Martini,

I need you Whipped Pumpkin Pie Martini. I need everything you represent. I need your big pumpkin taste and cinnamon aroma. I almost want to inject you into my thigh I need you so bad.

You see I don't have the Christmas spirit this year. Yes I said Christmas. And I don't have it. As my gray, boney Scrooge fingers type these words - knuckles cracking like a cane on cobblestone - I'm blasting the "White Christmas" channel on Pandora. "Frosty the Snowman" is blowing my whispy hair back - it's so gloriously loud. I have a miniature Rudolph on my deck blinking red every 1.2 seconds. Before my office door is a red mat with green holy spelling "welcome" as if I mean it. I'm trying, ho!

But, I feel my spirit has been shredded through its teeth by Karl Rove's rusty toenail clippers. After all, there's been horrific murders, war, killer hurricanes, devasting tsunamis, fiscal cliff, perverts, coal trains, texting, ice caps melting causing Dash Point to flood, homeless sleeping on city hall steps, car crashes, bacon jumping the shark over and over. Bah, humbug!

And yet, and yet. Even during these darkest of days - when the ornament hits the ground - Schroeder will ignite a Yuletide rave.

Don't get me wrong: I love Christmas. Typically, we put up our tree when the last turkey sandwich disappears. Even before that, we set up the Department 56 Santa's Village that represents our entire retirement fund.

What's that Whipped Pumpkin Pie Martini? Oh yes, Christmas shopping was a cinch: I bought potholes on South 11th and registered each in a loved one's name with The National Pothole Registry. My family don't need no stinkin' stars.

Is it truly the end of the world Whipped Pumpkin Pie Martini? Is it just some sort of cosmic downcycle? A spiritual reckoning? Jennifer Aniston wedding anxiety? Something like that, you think?

Because there seems to be a concerted effort to make the holidays no fun this year, I've done what all good humans do when they're fed up: drink until they have to cover one eye to see straight. Congratulations festive Whipped Pumpkin, I chose you. Any way you slice you, you come up creamy delicious. Yes, it's a bold move to go pumpkin in a mouth full of peppermint. You don't see families gathered around peppermint pie do you? Nope. Pumpkin scream comfort, and Masa bartender Wendell does you right. It could be the Satellite Coffee pumpkin spice syrup he adds. It could be the Smirnoff Whipped Cream Vodka base with its buttercream aroma and distinct coconut vibe. The Half and Half helps.

Masa might not be your first thought when seeking holiday happiness. The Sixth Avenue restaurant is a blend of stylish, metropolitan minimalism combined with everything you enjoy about Mexican restaurants - color, smells, sounds, activity, and amazing food. The place is huge with ceilings too high for anyone to hang mistletoe from the rafters, and lots of metal, including a huge, black Dracula Castle solid metal front door. If you're cold, you might run across the street to Asado's warm bossom. It's about taste, anyway. And, contrary to all medical science and my mother's advice ("If you chew your fingernails, you'll get worms and nobody will invite you to parties anymore"), I knew I'd warm up with a couple Whipped Pumpkins.

Maybe, Whipped Pumpkin Pie Martini, just maybe, all is not lost. If I take a couple of pine scented deep breaths, channel a ghost or three, I might catch a little spirit before Tuesday - the day before the Weekly Volcano goes to press(!). Maybe the answer is to order your creamy, sweet goodness, but this time forget the drowning of sorrows and the numbing of pains, and instead make a toast.

Cheers Whipped Pumpkin Pie Martini!

Ron Swarner