grumblings

There is no snow on the ground. I do not have a Christmas tree because our puppy will eat it. My husband and I are not getting each other presents so we can save money and run off to Mexico again someday.

So how do I know it’s Christmas?

All of the “Catholics” I know are suddenly skipping the weekend binge breakfast at the local Mexican place every Sunday and going to church instead.

I have received Christmas cards from the guy at the dealership who sold me my car, our financial planner, our bank, the breeder who sold us our dog, the president of my company, the chief of my husband’s fire department, the parents of friends I have not spoken to in years, and a myriad other faceless corporations and people I never think about.

The charities are after me.

The mall is busier and filled with even more redneck, backwards, morbidly obese carnival freaks than usual.

I have to attend the orgy of greed that is Christmas at my father and his girlfriend’s house.

I get emails from coworkers with gay sayings like “Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away!! ”

I am grumpy.

On another note, tomorrow is my birthday. My husband just called me to complain, literally complain about the fact that he cannot find anything to get me and that he does not have enough time to get something.

I have one thing to say to this: This better be an act and something nice better be in the works.

I have mentioned several things that I like and might want for my birthday over the last week. I am not hard to please. I do not want diamonds or expensive things. I would even be happy with a thoughtful card or some nice Vanilla Spice Body Butter from the Body Shop. But to call me and angrily tell me that you are “getting shafted” because I am “not easy to shop for” and “did not give you any hints” just hurts my feelings. There is nothing loving or special about that.

My advice to you would now be to get thee to the Body Shop and get me the fucking cream that I oohed and ahhed over last week, then take your ass on over to the dollar store and pick up a god damn card and write something in it. Might I suggest one of the following:

“I love you”

“To the mother of my child, thank you for making yourself sick, giving up red wine and cigarettes and ruining your skin to have my baby”

“Happy Birthday to a hell of a wife”

I would like to remind you that for your birthday, I do not ask you what you want. I just get you something nice and thoughtful.