Have I mentioned to all of you faithful blog followers before that I hate the holidays? The spending and the family and the lines and the gimme-gimme-gimme-what’d-you-get-mes… it is all just a little much for me.
So as we now close into the final stretch, I’ve pretty much been drinking heavily, swearing profusely, and emotionally eating my way to the end. But those aren’t the only ways I’m ensuring a cantankerous Christmas for me and the people that have the great misfortune of being around me.
A Crotchety Christmas Eve
I’ve decided that Christmas Eve is going to come with a side of crotchety bitch.
For two weeks or so, I’ve had a really bad chest cold; this of course did not excuse me from having to cook a multitude of meals, clean the house, get the gifts wrapped, run the errands, and do every other random bullshit preparatory thing that needed to be done. Because while everyone else gets sick and gets to sit around on their asses whining and being waited on and shit, mom gets sick and everyone just demands more.
So on Christmas Eve, my mother and father are coming over and Santa will have come in the afternoon somehow (stealthily, I might add … I have yet to figure that one out). Then we’ll open presents while I get shitfaced, eat dinner, have dessert, and I’ll shuttle the two of them out the door before they either (a) get into an argument, or (b) get back together after 22 years apart.
But remember that I’m cranky because I’ve been sick and no one really seems to have given a damn, so I plan on inserting some crotchety behavior into Christmas Eve. Just in case they thought they were all off the hook for being a bunch of ignorant jerks while I hacked and spewed everywhere. Somewhere, somehow (another thing I have yet to determine) I plan on throwing some freakish bout of hostility into the mix. I’m thinking that since I still have a cough, I might throw myself onto the floor and start banging my fists into the ground while I hack. Nothing says “crotchety old bitch” like proving your point.
A Cuntly Christmas Brunch
When I was in middle school (fuck this “middle school” west coast bullshit, by the way … where I grew up it was called junior high … but I digress), I learned what the term “cunt” meant. It makes me cringe to even say/hear/read/type it, so I’ll keep it to a minimum, but nonetheless that one day in junior high (motherfuckers … it’s motherfucking junior high), I learned that this is a crass way to refer to a woman’s vagina. And if you are trying to insult someone, of course it would be only natural to use a woman’s body part as the deepest of offenses.
I myself even call my husband a vulva and/or hairy labia in a derogatory fashion when we argue. I also call him a vulva and/or hairy labia when we’re in bed, but that’s another story altogether.
Besides being sick, I have gotten more details on people’s medical problems, health issues, bowel movements, and other assorted bodily things than I have wanted to as of late. I think it has to do with the fact that I mostly hang out with old people. My dad needs hip surgery. My mother in law has a cold in her eye and it makes her look like a rabid raccoon. My grandfather had a very productive bowel movement the other day after seven doses of Dulcolax and a bowl of prunes.
TMI, right? Well to get even with all of these people for conjuring up images that I never in a million years would have wanted to think about, my revenge will obviously be my own TMI.
I think I’ll start by talking about a strange vaginal itch (disclaimer: I do not have a strange vaginal itch). Then I’ll move on to discussing the fact that my labia smells like butterscotch (disclaimer: my labia does not smell like butterscotch). Then I thought I would tap off the whole Cuntly Christmas Brunch by standing in the middle of the kitchen, my hand down my pants and scratching vehemently, then turn around just at the right moment and ask if anyone wants butterscotch liquor in their egg nog. It’ll be super crass, super horrifying, and fucking awesome.
A Callous Christmas Dinner
OK, Christmas Eve (tonight) I’m cooking dinner for my parents and we’re opening gifts. Christmas morning (tomorrow in the am) I’m making a huge brunch for all segments of our families and friends that are local (albeit, very few are coming). Christmas Dinner we are going to my in-law’s house to open gifts with them, have dinner, and pretend like we all enjoy each other’s company.
My Cantankerous Christmas wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t do something to reinforce my title as “Queen of Bitches,” so I think I’ve decided on being as rough, callous, and uninterested as possible. Fortunately, we’ll be at my in-law’s, and this is what they are used to. They hate me. I respond by pretty much sitting and not saying much. My husband is similar, which I noticed very early on. I remember one time we were at his parent’s house and I noticed he was very callous when he was around his parents. He would stand there silently, with his arms crossed. He never really talked about anything unless he was asked a question.
When I asked him about it, he said that he knew he acted that way, and that he was callous like that on purpose. He said if he wasn’t, then his mother would spew her emotion everywhere and manipulate him to get things from him (in the way of commitments, time, and career and otherwise sacrifices). Whether this is the case or not, I still don’t know. What I do know is that I typically follow his lead and keep my mouth relatively shut (well, shut for me) because it is his family. And most of them hate me too.
So what are you doing for Christmas, faithful blog followers? Being chipper and loving it? Hating it in a bout of vehement misanthropy like me? Deleting yourself from my blog now that you realize how much of a truly crass and angry woman I can be?
I know that I can be a tough pill to swallow, but this whole Cantankerous Christmas really couldn’t be any better of a situation for me. I get to be a misanthrope. I get an excuse to drink copious amounts of alcoholic grape juice. And I get to open myself to a world of stories to tell. People always say to me: “Christmas is what you make of it.” They are of course referring to the fact that I’m far away from my family and in an unhappy place in life right now. But I think it goes beyond Christmas being what you make of it; it’s about Christmas being about who you are. Many of you don’t know me in person, so it isn’t really fair when you send me your hatemail and tell me I’m a “fucking asshole,” an “ugly whore,” and a “miserable cunt.” Because you don’t know me in person and you don’t know that I really am one of the nicest and most caring people you will ever meet.
But that doesn’t come without a price: I am called a bitch for a reason, and I am referred to as “blunt” because I say it exactly how it is. You might say I’m a little … cantankerous. I think Christmas this year is what I make of it, sure; and my Christmas is about who I am. A Merry Cantankerous Christmas to you, faithful blog followers, or whatever respective holiday you celebrate around this time of year. I hope it is what you make of it, and you are you in the process.