The 12 Hours of Christmas: Because I don’t have time to journal for 12 days, people. You get what you pay for, and this shit is free.

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So I’m baking holiday cookies before all the blue-hairs descend on us. I’ve got my hands covered in raw-egg-infested dough (which just gives me the boo-hoo-jeebies), I just realized I’m out of powdered sugar, the oven is beeping incessantly, and I burned the shit out of my favorite kitchen towel with the little chickens on it. As I’m opening the oven to put in the next batch of job security for my aerobics instructor, my five-year-old comes tearing ass through the kitchen on a tricycle, buck naked, using one hand to drag along a broken doll stroller with a football strapped into it, singing “Snape, Snape, Seeeeeberus Snape, DUNGLEDORB!It’s 8 a.m.

Puppets rule.

I don’t even know why I bother with the whole cookie-making deal, and I said as much to the checker at the grocery store while I was getting powdered sugar and a bottle of Patron. Both of these purchases have to do with the cookies, but only one is strictly called for in the recipe my girlfriend put on Facebook to shame me into baking. “Oh,” said the perky checker, “It’s not about making cookies. It’s about making memories with your children!” Really? Which part? The part where I say, “That’s hot! Don’t touch!” sixty times a minute? Or maybe the part where my kids lose interest four minutes into the prep work and take off on me to play Super Mario so I drip egg goo all over the floor and yell at them to, “GET BACK IN HERE AND MAKE SOME FREAKING MEMORIES WITH YOUR MOTHER!”? Or the part where I give up on cookies and decide to make rum balls because then I can drink while I bake and it’s totally a necessary part of making sure I have the right ingredients? Fuck. It’s only 10 a.m.

So, the kids are off at playdates, and I can get some work done. And by work, I mean, I can sit here and type random crap for you people (you’re welcome) while procrastinating and trying to ignore the scent of the demise of my favorite jeans wafting from the oven. Why can’t cookies be thin-ening instead of fattening? Why can’t we get caloric credits for what we DON’T eat? Considering how much effort it takes not to eat a dozen snowman cookies an hour, you’d think it would at least count for something. If I got credited 10 calories for every 100 calories of ChrismaKwanziHanukkah treats I don’t eat, I’d be in my really-really favorite jeans by now, and it’s been so long since I wore those that they’re actually acid washed with ankle zippers, but if I could get into them I’d wear the shit out of those skinny fuckers. And you would too. It’s noon, and now I’m hungry.

Before I pick up my kids, I have to run to Target. Again. Last week the manager told me that if I increase my monthly average shopping time by just another 37 minutes, I’ll get my own designated parking spot and a pimped-out cart with my name vajazzled on the handle. Or that could have been a dream. But probably not. Anyway, I make the rounds through Target and get a good look at Middle America while I do so. If what I see at Target is any indication of where we’re going as a society, we are fucking doomed, people. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. It’s 2 p.m. and I really need to pee, but it will have to wait because I’m afraid to pee in Target in case my cell phone rings while I’m on the toilet and I have to answer it because it’s important but then the person in the next stall starts answering me like in a bad SNL skit and then I’d have to tell her to shut up and then I’d have to explain to my client/friend/grandma/lawyer that I’m peeing in public while talking on my cell. No thanks. I’ll hold it.

Back at home, my kids are quiet. Too quiet. I wash more heebie jeebie egg plasma off my hands. Twice. And then I go in search of mischief. It doesn’t take long to find it. Kid #1 has built a fort by completely disassembling the bed and is playing under the mattress. Kid #2 is naked. Again. And now the oven is beeping. Again. It’s 4 p.m., people. And I am fucking tired.

I spent some time reading in the mattress fort, which was actually pretty damn cool, and later I draped my naked kid in a big tee-shirt for finger painting. We cleaned up all our messes (and by “we” I mean “mostly I”), then bagged and boxed up dozens of cookies and brownies and all sorts of other crap “we” made today, and then started the evening routine: Wash hands. Eat dinner. Wash bodies. Eat cookies. Go potty. Wash hands. Brush teeth. Read a story. Read another story. Go to bed. Come out. Drink water. Go back to bed. Come out. Go potty. Wash hands. Go back to bed. Come out. Beg for snack like a stoner at Burning Man begs for special brownies. Go back to bed. Come out. Get told to go back to bed. Claim to just be coming out for a hug (they learn early). Get hug. And get kiss. And get another hug and kiss. And some Eskimo kisses and tummy raspberries. And some tickles. And another tucking in. Go to bed. Snore. It’s 8 p.m.

Bonus Hour 8-9 p.m. (Don’t say I never do anything nice for you people.)

Fuck you, Sue. You stole my Northman glee.

I texted Mr. Northman to see what he was up to, mostly because the only adult conversation I’d had all day was with the damn grocery checker, and anyone that cheerily stupid doesn’t count as an adult. He texted me that he was getting in the car, and I really love to fuck with him, so I started texting him this really fucking sexy story about what I’d do if I were sitting there in the front seat with him. I mean, I know he can’t read it while he’s driving, but he can hear the little “bloop!” every 20 seconds, and he knows exactly what that means. So, yeah, I’m fucking with him a little, but that’s only because I’m not actually fucking him, seeing as he lives so damn far away. Plus, he really likes it. So, I finished the story and laid down on the couch watching Glee. But it was mostly about Sue, and I can’t fucking stand her, so I fell asleep before Mr. Northman got home and responded (enthusiastically) to my sext-y story. Yeah. Nice for him and all, but all I got out of it was sore texting thumbs and a crick in my neck from sleeping on the damn couch.

Merry Christmas, web dwellers. I’m off to Target.

One response »

  1. Pingback: My Ex Girlfriend Lyrics Bobby Valentino

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