We did it! We made it! We hovered exceedingly close to our credit card limits and emptied our line of credits for baby Jeebus! Weeee!!


Working retail, at Christmas, is tons of fun. People spend money, people kind of enjoy doing it and people are generally in a fun and festive mood…until Christmas eve. Then the people that have stubbornly tried to rebel and boycott Christmas have realized that this seasonal political statement will probably result in divorce and loss of family. So those Scrooges decide, at 2pm on Christmas eve, to have nervous breakdowns in all the shops while the sales people desperately try to find the perfect gift for that special someone they have never, ever met. Christmas eve shoppers are always men. The men that are shitting their pants and cutting it close. Come on dudes! How come you haven’t learned? Giving yourself 3 hours to find gifts for everyone on your life is a pretty intense challenge. But I do revel in your panic every year you silly boys.

I was in the shop the other day, behind a desk, doing computer work. The boss’ dog was at my feet and the boss had stepped out. A gentleman I have known for many years walked over to the desk for a wonderful discussion and catch up of both of our families. And that’s when I smelled it. From where the man was standing there was no way he could see the dog that was at my feet. The dog that had just let the most foul, satanic, dead fish smelling fart out. The smell started to become nauseating as it rose. I tried not to gag. I knew the gentleman must have totally thought this foul, fish fermented smell was coming from me. I didn’t want to bring attention to it just in case he hadn’t smelled it but if he had and I hadn’t mentioned anything, I definitely looked guilty. I left it and prayed that guy doesn’t think I regularly eat dead fish heads for lunch and then explode.

Grandma’s 95th birthday was a total success! That lady has more friends in town then I do and baked enough for HER OWN PARTY to give a small country cavities. After hours of setting up, talking, hugging, present opening, tea and coffee power drinking, eating and tearing down we were all totally exhausted. We walked Grandma up to her apartment and threw down all her loot on her table. We were fading fast. We asked Grandma if she was exhausted. She said she was fine and had another party to get to which she had already delivered the baking for the day before. Good christ lady, whatever she is on I would like some. WHO IN THIS TOWN IS DEALING MY GRANNY SPEED? Dad told everyone at the party that I didn’t know what Best Wishes meant when we were making the poster for the party. Every time I heard him laughing I knew he was telling the story AGAIN about how I didn’t think Best Wishes was necessary because I couldn’t foresee people in balaclavas coming in, stuffing some triangle sandwiches into their pants, smashing a fine china tea cup, calling my Grandma an old prune and then popping a balloon, angrily, on the way out. I sometimes am pretty sure my parents are most proud of my hysterical stupidity in life. I had tried baking gluten free muffins for the party the night before. I was in the kitchen mixing the ingredients when I needed a quick baking question answered. “Dad, I already know the answer, but just to confirm, 1/3 cup plus 1/3 cup is going to make 2/3 cup right?” He started laughing hysterically and I had my answer.

I feel the world is full of people that want to make fun of the math retards. And I know they do it on purpose. Like when someone has given you money they owe for a transaction, you punch in what they gave you and get the change and then they say “OH! I have .35 cents here” and they hand it to you. And you are thinking, FUCK you. Does it look like I get paid enough to do mental math for a living? Do you think they taught simple addition and subtraction in my arts degree program? Do you think my 8 years of private math tutoring and anxiety medication was worth re-hashing over your pocket full of change? Why can’t we just continue with what the cash register said and we can call it a day! And then those people, almost always, make fun of me for not being able to do the math. And I have to talk myself down from punching them in the face. I am always quick to say, sorry, I am rusty in mental math as my degree in Comparative Politics and Psychology definitely did not teach me any. And all that work I do with youth struggling with mental health isn’t exactly numbers heavy. But what I do know is that we probably do not vote the same way and you were probably a bullied in school because you were good at math. Take that. The end!

Omg! That Duck Dynasty guy said something bad against gay people, that being gay is a sin! Are we shocked?? A bunch of Christian, rednecks said this? Seriously? I haven’t even seen the show, nor do I think I have the mental capacity to care about watching the show. But even I wasn’t surprised about this news headline. This is what happens when you idolize rednecks that invented a fucking duck call people. Get a clue.

I don’t know how this happened, but it happens every year, for as long as I can remember. I am always and I mean always PMS-ing at Christmas. I don’t know how or when I synced up with baby Jeebus but it has happened and it’s unpleasant. So when everyone else is high anxiety, anxious, and freaking out, I have surpassed all that and am crying in the corner in the fetal position or being super nasty just for fun. The Christmas lights make me tear up, having to sit in church Christmas eve makes me tear up, seeing my family altogether makes me tear up, as does opening presents. It’s disgusting really. And then if someone crosses me the wrong way, WATCH OUT y’all. I actually had to make the executive decision at one point to pretend to not hear what a customer said in order to stop myself from replying with a snarky, smart ass comment.
Good times for me and all those around me. Merry Fucking Christmas everyone.