Even though it means I’m days closer to having The Daver go back to work–he takes the week between Christmas and New Years off–and thereby leaving me alone with my daemon (toddler) spawn, I’m so fucking happy that Christmas is over for the year.
I’m still pretty shocked by my reaction to the holidays in general this year: I’m normally THAT PERSON that you hate for being thrilled and awed when the Christmas stuff gets put out in the stores in August, and the person who reverently listens to Christmas album after Christmas album in my car in July. I get thrilled by spending ridiculous amounts of cash to give Martha Stewart a wrapping for her money, I carefully unpack and put out all of the 4,000 bins of Christmas decorations I’ve accumulated over the past years. I get misty-eyed when the Christmas programs start running on television, and I typically bake more cookies than anyone can possibly eat.
This year, however, was a bare-bones operation. And even still, as I sit among the piles of stuff that I need to sort and put away in their proper homes, I’m slightly blue that I wasn’t Feeling It this year. Don’t get me wrong: my sadness isn’t because I DIDN’T do the stuff, it’s because I DIDN’T WANT TO. And that is a-typical for me.
It’d be like waking up after having Cheerios as your favorite breakfast food for 25 years only to discover that now it tastes like battery acid to you.
But whatever. The whole fucking she-bang is done, and although we might all be suffering from massive Christmas Hangovers and a little crank-a-licious, we’re all pretty pleased that everything went off as well as it did. And moreover, it’s done! Praise Baby Jesus, it’s DONE!
Now is the time to hurry-up-n-wait for Amelia’s arrival, which will, of course, seem an eternity. Something about that last month(ish) of pregnancy seems to defy all Matters Of Time and yawn wildly into years.
Anyway. Moving on.
So, what would my obligatory Christmas post be without a good chuckle? Nothing much, I’m afraid.
I have this aunt and uncle, both of whom I adore completely and see (sadly) infrequently, but every year since I can remember, they travel to Costco, buy the sort of stuff you’d normally pass by and snicker at, and then wrap it up and send it to us. I’d like to imagine it’s a very cerebral joke as they’re both academics, but I somehow doubt it. I seem to bear the brunt of the weirdest of it.
This years take-home? A collectors box set of West Side Story for The Daver and I.
What’s wrong with that Aunt Becky? You may ask yourself. I mean, it’s a musical and it’s fun and who doesn’t love fun + musicals?
That would be The Daver and I. Especially moi, who tends to equate musicals with the type of torture that involves pulling out toenails and watching The Facts Of Life marathon on late night TV. I’m not only not a Movie Person, I’m REALLY not a Musical Movie Person. And I’ve never been, which left Daver and I mystified as to why on Earth we’d gotten this as a gift.
Certainly it would be an excellent gift for…someone. Just not us.
Thankfully, however, we were neatly able to pawn this puppy off on my father-in-law the following day and have been spared the inevitable back and forth we normally do with gifts like this. Now he, HE loved it. And I loved that I didn’t have to find someone else to give it to. Because it WAS a nice gift.
For someone else.
What was the weirdest thing you got this year as a gift?
(ed note: as my husband, The Daver, who is addicted to Work-a-hol is blissfully off for the next couple of days, I will be few and far between. I’ll be too busy watching him tackle 547 house projects that have gone unnoticed for the rest of the year.)