Sunday, December 18, 2011

Fa la la la fuck you

Christmas seems to be rolling in this year with all the usual fucking awesomeness. I've already blown the lights on the Christmas tree three damn times because I SEE NO REASON WHY YOU CANNOT PLUG FIFTEEN SETS OF LIGHTS TOGETHER AND HAVE ONLY ONE PLUG LEADING FROM THE TREE TO THE OUTLET. B, with all his engineering knowledge, has replaced the fuse three times and gently tried to explain to me why this is an issue twice. The third time, he just re-coordinated the plugs so that every single string of lights is no longer connected together, but are broken up a few times. At least he finally figured out that his lectures were falling on deaf ears, poor boy. I PUT THE DAMN LIGHTS ON THE TREE. I DO NOT RECONFIGURE THEM. The garland has fallen off the fireplace two or three times because I AM A GIRL AND NOT GOOD AT HANGING THINGS (push-pins are my answer to nearly everything that must hang) AND I baked a batch of peppermint sugar cookies that Sutton declared "burned and a little funny." Well, Merry Fucking Christmas to you too, minion. Next time, you can bake your own goddamn cookies.

You and I both know that I want to give Christmas the finger.

I took the kids to see Santa a couple of weeks ago and they were pretty stoked. As far as I'm concerned, I'm down with the kids believing in Santa, but I don't think my hopes and dreams will be crushed when they one day stop. I don't believe the magic of Christmas comes from Santa, although I'M not going to tell them any differently. They'll figure it out one day on their own. Anyway, we were at the mall and they were perched on the Big Man's lap, yammering on about Wii games and Polly Pocket as I tried to ignore the OVERACHIEVER MOMMY behind me who had her two toddlers in MATCHING FUCKING OUTFITS (who DOES that-- well, except you, Meredith, if you are reading this. I will cut you some slack on H and M) and kept telling them how they had to "smile big for Santa!" when Santa looked over at me. "Mommy," he said, "What do you want for Christmas?" Hmmmm. Here was an opportunity. Should I tell him "new purple Nikes and Cupcake Vodka?" (what I really wanted) or "world peace" (like a good girl should) or "my Dad back" (the impossible request)? How does one answer Santa when he asks what he can bring you for Christmas?

The kids were watching me expectantly. Overachiever Mommy had quieted down and was likely plotting her own answer, should Santa ask her next ("World Peace!"). I was tired. I was hungry. Fighting my way through Gymboree and Bath and Body Works had felt like engaging in a triathlon (not that I would ever engage in a triathlon-- I'm not stupid). So I told him the truth, Haley style.

"Well, Santa. I would like that one (pointing at Bellamy) to stop calling her brother 'noggin head' and making him punch her in retaliation, where she then bursts into tears because we ALL KNOW that that 34 pounds he weighs packs a lot of power when he punches. I would like that one (pointing at Sutt) to agree to wear underpants to school without the discussion coming to bribery and/or name-calling, as one can only hear 'Noggin head is SUCH a baby and his yoda is going to FREEZE OFF if he doesn't put on his underpants' so often before one (me) wants to SHOOT SOMEONE IN THE FUCKING HEAD. I want the dog, who is old, to quit puking in the floor because it is IMPOSSIBLE to scrub the stain out of the carpet and, despite my proclivity for spot-cleaning I AM TIRED. I want my husband to remember to turn on his work mobile when he is in meetings. which is ALWAYS since his promotion, because WHEN I FUCKING DRINK A GALLON OF BLEACH AND JUMP OFF A GODDAMN BRIDGE FROM FRUSTRATION WITH OUR CHILDREN he is going to need to know about it. YES. That, Santa, is what I want."

All was quiet for a moment. Or, perhaps, a few moments. Then Santa patted each kid on the head and gave them a miniature candy cane. "You kids be nice to your Mommy. I want you to hug her every day." Then Santa winked at me and gestured for me to come closer. "You hang in there, Mommy," he whispered.

Santa knew. He could tell Mommy was hanging by a thread. Hell, after that, most anybody ought to be able to tell Mommy was hanging by a thread. Christmas can go fuck itself. Ho ho fucking ho.

Here's to hoping I'm getting that Cupcake Vodka for Christmas this year after all.

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