Christmas Confessions-Christmas Eve Edition

Well, here it is. As I sit here typing it is officially Christmas Eve. Has been for about 8 hours now. And yet, I feel nothing. Nothing, that is, except the heavy weight of all that I need to do. And the inkling of a feeling way, down deep inside me. A feeling that I have been trying to ignore for a long time now. Perhaps now is the time to just get it out there and admit it.

Y'all I don't think I like Christmas. **GASP** I know! Right? I am not ready to admit that I hate it, though there are aspects of it that I do hate. But honestly? If Christmas were a friend, it would be that high maintenance bitch cheerleader high school friend who always wanted to talk only about herself and her problems. Remember her? She prissed around all perfect with her hair and makeup and flippy little cheerleading skirt? She only talked to you when all her other perfect cheerleader friends or boyfriends were unavailable? Or when she needed help with her English or civics homework? That bitch would be Christmas.

You know, we do well most of the year. Some of us struggle to maintain our lifestyle, some of us struggle to just get by. And then, November rolls around. And there she is, staring you right in the face. That bitch, Christmas. On the television, in the mall, on the town square. She's all glittery and perfect and demanding and crap, just waiting for you to hand over your homework. You stand there all schleppy and beaten down from the first 11 months of the year, and for one moment? Usually around Thanksgiving? You think you can be good enough for her.

She tells you that if you can do enough, buy enough, spend enough, bake enough, cook enough, run enough, party enough, dress up enough, do your hair, have sparkly nails, decorate your tree just right, sing carols, make your home look festive enough, if you can do all this? You might, just might, be good enough to be friends with her. But you have to sing carols, visit shut-ins, go into debt, attend all the right parties, buy all the right gifts, and have a patented sympathetic look for all the others who just can't afford to be so perfect in their holiday appreciations.

Every year I do it. Every year she gets me. Despite the fact that in high school I gave a big f-u to anyone who didn't want me around. Despite the fact that I dressed crazy and was not like anyone else in school. Despite the fact that I had a few friends in every social group, yet no one group to really fit into. Despite the fact that I proudly wore my neon colored Culture Club, Duran Duran, and Cyndi Lauper t-shirts into school, having to walk past all the smoker/stoner kids in their black Metallica, and Rush t-shirts who constantly make smart ass comments to me. Despite all this, I want Christmas to be my friend.

All year long I think of the awesome, elaborate, over the top things I am going to do, cook, bake, and decorate. All year long I think of the great, perfect, one of a kind gifts I will bestow upon my family and how they will love them and think I am the best. All year long I think of how beautiful my home will be, all glittery and glistening in the soft lights, beautiful inside and out. I think of the family dinner where everyone is formally dressed and sitting around a long dining room table, toasting with wine and reviewing what a wonderful, fortune filled year they had. All year I say, I am going to do better this year. And I believe it, y'all. I really do. Even when Thanksgiving gets here I still think I can be it all, do it all, afford it all, and make a wonderful, sane, refined, sparkling Christmas for me and everyone around me. And do it with easy. Why? Because that Christmas bitch told me I could.

And every year I end up where I am today. Christmas Eve. All the holiday parties are behind me, and some of them were nowhere near as fun as I thought they'd be. Mostly time spent with people I don't really even know or usually make time to be with. I got the outside of the house decorated, but it isn't anywhere near as elaborate as I want it to be. I got my tree up exactly a week ago. I am still working on getting it decorated. I got no baking done, no wonderful elaborate homemade gifts done, few gifts purchased, and feel like a major holiday fail. Once again, Christmas is walking away from me, heading toward another girl who looks like me but has a lot more time and money and focus and talent, enough to make the Christmas of her dreams. As they walk off together into the new year, that bitch Christmas flips me off and calls "better luck next year" over her shoulder. I hate you, Christmas, with the burning fire of a thousand suns.

Next year? Christmas? You're dead to me. Ya' hear me?

***The portrayal of Christmas as a bitchy high school cheerleader is not based on any one person, and really has nothing to do with my experience with cheerleaders or any of those with whom I may or may not have been friends with in high school. I am sure cheerleaders can be as nice and wonderful as all the rest of us once they are all grown up. This story is, obviously, fictional.***

You Say It's Your Birthday?

So, today is the day of my birth. My age is somewhere between a mid-life crisis and an AARP membership. I had a crazy, fun party planned for myself and all my girls last Saturday. Cause I am like that. One of my friends said, "Aren't we supposed to throw a party for you?" "No, thank you" I said with a smile, "I want what I want so I choose to do it myself."

When I was growing up, birthdays were a huge deal. People, I got a pair of Shetland ponies for my 4th birthday, OK? Yeah. And a little cart for them to pull the princess around in. My mom and dad would be MORE than happy to share the video they took of me and some of my cousins having rides around the farm. So, my parents kind of set the bar ... high? shall we say? Although I have to mention that they did try to have children for almost 15 years with many disappointments and finally adopted me, and 3 years later my brother. (And no, we're not actual biological siblings.)

This fun was only complicated by the fact that my brother and I had birthdays 3 years and 10 days apart. He was younger. My birthday was first. Think about it, when I turned 5 he was about to turn 2. When I turned 7 he was about to turn 4. It wasn't pretty people. It is impossible to explain to a 2 year old that it is his birthday in 10 days. I feel bad for him, really I do. It had to be torture waiting for your birthday and having your sister's giant royal celebration BEFORE you. There was much tantrum throwing, cake smashing, and candle blowing-outing done by my brother before my parents finally wised up and decided that we should have a COMBINED party for the both of us somewhere in between the two days. I think that was the year I turned 9 and he turned 6. Yeah, that works out well, don't you think? Ten 9 year old girls and ten 6 year old boys at a McDonald's party together, fifteen 10 year olds and twenty 7 year olds at a roller skate party together. But you get the picture. It wasn't pretty, but it did save my beautiful cake.

Oh, the cakes. Every year my wonderful mom would ask me ahead of time what I wanted for my cake. And then she'd make it for me. Obviously this was back in the day of the true homemaker and stay at home mom. I had some wonderful cakes. One year (I think I was 4 or 5) I asked for a jellybean cake. If someone asked me for that, I would have no idea what to do. But mom presented me with a giant cake that had "Happy Birthday Marsha" spelled out in jellybeans. The princess loved it. One year I wanted a horse cake (10th I think) and she carved a cake in the shape of a horse head (my horse's head specifically) and decorated it. It was beautiful. If I had the time today I would search the archives for the picture, but alas. It is a busy week.

So my growing up years were full of fun birthdays in which I was the queen for a day. Roller skating parties, sleep overs, shopping trips, movies, ice cream cakes, homemade cakes, cup cakes, trips to Shoney's and Baskin Robbins, jewelry when I got older. It set a terrible precedent for adult life, unrealistic expectations for everyone around me. Even my mom told me "you want everything to be exactly right or it doesn't even count." No, it doesn't. But I am working on that. And by the way, mom? You created this birthday monster, do you realize that?????

When I was in my 20's a co-worker told me that I need to get over this. "Once you're past the age of 12, no one cares that it's your birthday." she said. Well, maybe that's true. I don't get treated like Queen for a day anymore, that's for sure. I don't get to pre-order the cake I want and have exactly the cake I want show up exactly how I imagined it. (chocolate cake with mocha chocolate chip ice cream. HOW HARD IS THAT??? Really?!) But what I do have is this:

I have friends who love me and I totally appreciate every one of them taking time to send me wishes by text, phone, and FaceBook. I have my husband who woke me with kisses and sang "happy birthday" to me. I have the fact that I am not eating sugar or carbs right now to eliminate the need for any cake, much less the one I want. I received a scholarship award last night that will allow me to begin classes again in January. I have an 82 year old dad who just made it through a MAJOR surgery and is coming through like a champ. I have a beautiful new ring that I picked out and hubby gave me. It's a Magnolia blossom.(natch)

So what if I am working all week co-chairing event after event. So what if I had to cancel my fun birthday "tea" for my girls in my backyard due to dad's surgery. So what if I don't get to be queen for a day and eat my favorite cake. So what am I doing for my birthday? I am working on a design project today, mailing postcards for my jewelry business and talking to some wonderful people on the phone. Best of all, tonight we're (hubs, me, and my bff's) heading out for a bingo experience as part of our NBWW events. How kitsch is that? I am so excited. And extremely thankful. It's gonna be the best birthday ever.