I’ve finally found my holiday groove, people! Between Meijer, Amazon and a lovely merlot, I’m feeling quite good about Christmas. True, I have not written the annual family missive, nor have I mailed a single card, but I’m not worried. “Better late than never” is our family motto!
Now, if only my husband, Doo, would stop being such a Grinch. I don’t know if this is all men, but whenever the stress hits in force, he can’t manage to pull himself together. He’s been oscillating between “I don’t care if Maddie has dance, we’re going to get antibody tested now!” and “I can’t possibly work if you keep nagging me about addressing envelopes.” This is why I’m playing Bing Crosby nonstop. Only a sultry crooner can dissuade me from that twinkle-lit ledge.
I’m also stuffing my face with bourbon-soaked English fruitcake to stifle my retorts. I want to tell Doo to quit whining and go to the office already. Seriously, anyone here expecting to be left alone in the peace and quiet for seven hours just days before Santa arrives is living in Fa-la-la-la-la-land. This place is the Island of Misfits Toys, friends. We have cats vomiting on carpets, kids revolting against our self-imposed quarantine and a janky 12-foot fir threatening to topple, spectacularly, of course. Ornament shankings appear imminent.
My point is, I need Doo to get on board my Polar Express, for him to take a moment to enjoy this crazy season and, more importantly, to praise my spectacular purchasing prowess. Also, to help with this card thing. Our Elf on the Shelf retired years ago, and these envelopes aren’t going address themselves! Peace out.