For years I prided myself on being a hyper-organized neat freak. I’m not talking about the years of early adulthood. The ones where I had my first apartment, or even the ones during my first few years of marriage. No, those years were mostly dedicated to surviving. It was all about scraping together enough money to pay our utility bills, rent and tuition.
Those years were ugly. And well documented with hundreds of pictures of bad hair. My house was in a constant state of disarray, my babies were lucky if they were clothed and I couldn’t see past the mess I was living in.
But slowly, I pulled myself and my household out of the gutter, got a better hairstyle and managed to find a way to survive the early parent, young marriage years.
And I became the uber wife, super mom prodigy I like to mock nowadays.
For about seven years, I had my shit together. I did my Christmas shopping in the off season when I found sales and I carried a list with me where ever I went. There was none of this wandering the grocery store aisles while hungry, randomly filling my cart with whatever I hoped we needed because I forgot to make a list before leaving home, like I shop now.
No, come December first every year, the gifts were all purchased and lovingly wrapped in carefully coordinated wrapping papers and strategically placed bows. I’d laugh at all the suckers who ran around at the last minute trying to score good deals as they purchased their holiday gifts and goodies.
I was obnoxious, really. But I was obnoxious with a ridiculously clean house and a stick up my arse most of the time too.
Ya. I was a total jackass.
And then things changed. I don’t know if I grew up a little more or if what had seemed so important to me before no longer was a priority once my son died. But suddenly, I’m satisfied if the inside of the toilet bowl isn’t brown and there is at least a path to navigate in between the dog fur, the dust bunnies and the kids discarded socks.
Oh how the mighty has fallen.
And once again, I am sorely unprepared for Christmas. I’ve picked up a couple presents for a few people but the reality is, if I don’t get my arse moving soon, there isn’t going to be much under the Christmas tree for anybody. I’m woefully ill prepared for the holiday season. There has been no Christmas baking, no gift wrapping, nothing.
I’m just lucky I managed to throw a couple of loads of laundry into the wash and sweep the floor before falling down in exhaustion. The idea of Christmas is completely wearing me out. I don’t know how real grown up people with real jobs do all this. Because I’m completely faking it.
Oh ya, I’m a holiday faker. But at least I managed to get my Christmas tree up. Small victories.
Between Jumby’s complex needs, boys basketball, girls basketball, club volleyball, musical theatre, broken in-laws, an absent husband and blogging, I don’t have much time to do anything but drive, write and scatter some dry cereal around for the ferals to eat. I used to think I was busy when I had two toddlers and a baby. Apparently I didn’t know what busy meant.
So when my husband called to ask me what I wanted for Christmas, I blanked. Apparently he didn’t like my suggestions in the post I wrote for him. He’s got some personal rule against buying me dead stuffed animals or pots I will never use.
When I couldn’t come up with anything he deemed reasonable he was hard pressed to believe I haven’t spent time crafting a very long wish list like I have in years past. (Because the best way to ensure you get what you want for Christmas, I’ve learned, is to write down very specific items including locations in which he can purchase said goodies. Works like a charm every year I tell ya.)
Without my Christmas wish list I’ve apparently spiralled my husband into the depths of Christmas misery alongside me.
Welcome to the club sweetie.
So I got to thinking. What do I really want for Christmas?
The list? It’s not pretty.
I’d like a set of boobs that don’t flap around like tube socks. But I don’t want to have them surgically altered. I want them magically fixed. It’s less painful that way.
Speaking of boobs, I’d like the none whiskered variety. Because nipple hair? It’s not attractive on any one. Especially on a 36 year old woman. And I’m tired of plucking.
I’d like the waist I had back when I was 20. Before children. You remember the one. It was narrow enough both of your hands could fit around it and touch. I miss that waist.
I’d like a butt. I miss having one. And I’m too lazy to exercise to get one. I hear they make padded underwear. Sounds fantastic to me.
I want legs I never have to shave again. And toe nails that never grow. Because the current set I own of each require me to bend over to trim and shave and to let’s be honest, I’m too lazy for that type of maintenance.
I want a car that fuels itself and never needs an oil change.
Children who don’t require feeding. Or driving. I’m so tired of driving.
I want floors that don’t have a rip in the linoleum or scratches in the laminate.
How about some extra cupboards so I can store the zombie head cookie jar I’m coveting?
I want socks that never get dirty and never need folding. Shirts that make me look like I’m actually trim and fit and pants I can button up with out sucking in my gut and then having a lovely roll of muffin top hanging over the edge.
I’d like a self-cleaning refrigerator.
My best friend to move back to Canada. Preferably next door.
How about a job for Boo that doesn’t require him living under a different roof?
I’d like my back pain to be cured, my dad’s rheumatoid arthritis to go away and for Jumby to be able to sit independently.
But what I really, really want for Christmas?
I’d like someone to come and finish all my Christmas shopping for me and then wrap everything so I won’t have to. Because at this rate, I’m seriously considering wrapping up potatoes and frozen bags of peas in old newspaper for everyone and calling it a day.
Happy shopping Boo. I hope you have better luck with your Christmas shopping than I am mine.