merry christmas bitches

Yeah, right, get out of my chair my ass. I haven't sat down in the last twenty-seven days, merry christmas, bitches. The cleaning, the fudge-making, the frosting of star-shaped cookies, the Santa stickers on all those cards, empty tape dispensers piling up. Where's my Christmas spirit? Why, it's up your cranberry red asses, you little funky elves and elvettes, bah humbug.

That out of my system I need to say this. I like Christmas. I really do. It's all about the glitter and peppermint and Bing Crosby, have yourself a merry little whatever but I must tell you this. I often fantasize about escaping the family pit. Somewhere on an island, green bluffs silhouetted against an ocean, white caps bobbing on the horizon, perhaps a dolphin sighting, endless margaritaville. I can smell the Coppertone. I'm sweating and steaming in the tropical sun, rum and fruit juice mating in my half-coconut shell just waiting for that jerk chicken guy to swing on by.

I awake Christmas morning and I know I want someone else to cook me breakfast. Our usual greasy spoon is open, run by a ruthless Greek guy who never lets his poor wait staff rest. I am agitated because there are tables of 16, 20 people waiting, families who want to get the Christmas get-together over and in a public place so they can go home and watch Netflix and eat store-bought peanut brickle. I need to get back to mix up the cheesy potato casserole and my two eggs over easy are way way down on the cook's schedule thanks to these mega families.

I have invited my family for dinner. My sister and father arrive early so we can play the traditional Christmas Scrabble game. My father wins by three lousy points and I attribute this to the fact that he spends several evenings a month perusing the Scrabble dictionary. He comes up with "za" and "qi" for acceptable words. I want to disqualify anything coming out of that accursed book, but he's 89, enjoy the win old man, you won't have many more.


I'm just saying.

my sister's sentiments

 

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