When Jill asked me to guest blog (read: I begged her on Twitter to let me stop by) I was humbled by the opportunity to share my mock Christian, pseudo mommy thoughts on, well, anything in the home of the Jewish mistress of autism ass-kicking.
She asked if I needed a topic—I of course, said “Yes, please!” so this whole blog was really written by her using my blogger alter ego just so she can get away with writing about Christmas. Oh yeah…Christfreakinmas. (I would have used fuckin’ instead of freakin’ there, but even I have standards.)
I love the season of the birth of our Savior (even if it is a debatable issue that he may or may not have been born in Spring, but whatever). I put up my tree on Thanksgiving. Not for nothing, but fuck this 8 nights of Hanukkah crap. Give me 30 days of Christmas! I want it all, including the Beach Boys Christmas album and Miracle on 34th Street.
But this year…oh yes, this year is bullshit. You see, everything over here in Dysfunction Junction has been just a little “off”. We’ve dealt with unemployment, major illness, articulation disorders, divorce(s), foreclosures, family fall-outs and other infestations of “life lice” as I like to call it. And in true “off” fashion, tree decorating fell right in line.
This is our Dr. Fucking Seuss Tree. The star is that way on purpose. We just bought the star last year: brand new…directly from the Mayor of Target herself. But last year we had 12 foot cathedral ceilings in our house and the star was atop an 8 ft. tree. Not this year, ladies and gentlemen. This year we have downsized by more than 70% in square footage and our brand new star is too damned big to fit on the 6ft. Wal-Mart tree. (I still feel dirty from that shopping trip.)
Could I have replaced it with a fluffy, festive bow? Sure.
But I decided, instead, to say “Merry Fucking Christmas” in true Griswald form and celebrate the slightly off year we’ve had in our happy home.
Some years are just like that, aren’t they? How would you handle it?
I choose to be like the Grinch when he says to Cindy Lou Who as they’re rushing down the mountain at 492 mph and about to crash:
“Now you listen to me, young lady! Even if we're *horribly mangled*, there'll be no sad faces on Christmas.”