It’s Christmas time, and I nearly skinned my knee rushing to the local Target to peruse their isles of Christmas crap. It’s the season I like, not so much the actual day. I get so disappointed on the day, because in my mind my family is perfect. I imagine us all sitting together at the table and recalling fond memories of the year. We each take turns sharing what we’re thankful for and pass the mashed potatoes with warm smiles. In my mind there are no drunk mailmen that show up and try to hit on me–because my dad is friends with everyone. There are no drunk and unapologetic aunts who try to convince me that being a stay-at-home-mom is not a real job. No homophobic cousins that constantly push the limits of racial slurs and bigotry. I don’t much like the day of Christmas, but each year I secretly hope it will be different. And on top of all that nonsense, this year I have a baby. This makes me nervous. Here are just a few reasons:
- She’ll electrocute herself with Rudolph singing and light-up reindeer
- Christmas just got WAY more expensive
- She might eat a ornament
- One explosive poo, and her pretty Christmas dress is ruined
- My grandma will try to feed her a chicken gizzard
So, this year, I’m not hoping for a Marc Jacobs handbag, or a pair or Miu Miu flats, I am hoping for sanity…although the flats wouldn’t hurt.
- I get to talk to myself throughout the day. My internal dialogue just runs all day long, out loud.
- I can fart and blame it on my baby. “Oh…wow, Berlyn, you stinky girl.”
Motherhood is so glamorous
Her music is beautiful. It makes me want to take pictures of drain pipes, write poetry in a tattered leather book, and smoke cigarettes.
We saw the Cold War Kids in L.A. last night. They were pretty amazing, you can check them out here.
We had fun, but on the way back home in between hardy yawns that made my insides shake, I wondered, “when did I get so old?” We were only out until 12:30, but at 9, I was ready for my warm bed and jammies. Coincidentally, I found a grey hair in my eyebrow yesterday. Is this how it starts, early bed times, grey facial hairs? What next, am I going to start stuffing tissues up my sleeves while taking liver medication, and complaining about my rickets? What are rickets? I want nothing to do with those. About half way through their set I started to get a migraine, and while sitting politely in the balcony, my seat neighbors got up and starting dancing causing the entire mezzanine to shake. I kept envisioning my death, my hands firmly clutching the armrest while I was listening and nervously tapping my toes to “Saint John.”
Blood, sweat, and tears went into my food offering for Thanksgiving. Although I didn’t make a turkey, I did make a giant mess in the kitchen. And no, I didn’t actually spill any bodily fluids into my yummys. I made a pumpkin pie, which was whatever, and I made a CARAMEL APPLE CHEESECAKE. This stupid piece of stupid kicked my ass twice, pulled my hair, stepped on my baby toe, and slept with my mom–and it may or may not be ruined. The recipe told me to wrap the pan in foil and then put it in a water bath to bake. I did those things, and I wrapped it twice, just so there was no way water could seep in. But as I unwrapped it when it came out of the oven, there was a flood of water all hanging out in the foil; like a little water party that the foil hosted. So all my efforts could be in vain. I don’t know what will happen. It could be a pool of drippy mess-yuck when we cut it open.
I guess we’ll just have to find out if the illegitimate child it made with my mommy was all worth it tomorrow.
Everyone has them, it’s just that I would like to think that I live in a magical place where there’s no such thing as neighbors. Shh, I’m trying to pretend you don’t exist. My next door neighbors are the worst. They have a huge TV (I know this because they leave both their garage door and door to their house open, just waiting for me to look at their stuff) and they have what seems like 7 children. These 7 children apparently don’t go to school because they are playing their XBox at 10:15 in the morning–no, scratch that, 8:43. The wall that joins my house with theirs shakes and quivers every time they turn their dumb game on. At first I thought that maybe we were getting a special visit from the President and his helicopter was landing on our roof. I got all excited and ran up my room to put my pearls on. But after no sign of George, my heart was sad, and I had to stick refridgerator magnets into my ears to muffle the sound. One of these days I am going to knock on the door and demand that they turn it off and play a jaunty game of marbles instead. But until then, I’ll just be in my house with tiny replica corn on the cob magnets jammed in my ears.