As most of you don’t know, I used to be a fan of December and therefore Christmas
|Rockefeller’s 2013 Christmas Tree.|
however with age, stress and other bullshit that goes on it life, the joy of December, Christmas and the ever eye rolling moment of New Years Eve has essentially dimmed the light. However, even though I am now not a massive fan of what I consider to be an over commercialised business transaction; I have always dreamt and wanted a white Christmas.
You can essentially blame it all on the first photo I ever saw of Rockefeller Centre holding a massive tree and the front yard of a house having been covered in white stuff, called snow. As to date, my dream of wanting to create snow angels, suffering from wet undies and a cold arse has not deterred from my lack of Christmas joy. And to set it off, creating and building a snow man with raise eyes, a hat/scarf so he doesn’t freeze and the feature of a half eaten nose because knowing me, I would have gotten hungry.
Instead, my Christmases have been swapped from the blissful, dream state of Christmas wishing to experiencing in reality a variety of different levels of heat waves and strokes. In addition to having become of an age that I am no longer classified as a danger in the kitchen, I have found myself being glued to the kitchen in honour of being born a female, cooking Christmas lunch with Lois. This only occurs after having been woken by 3 giants, who have suffered a history of eating dynamic lifter, who scream “wake the fuck up!”
|Mr Darcy’s Reindeer.|
Or in some cases, if you don’t move your body or grunt, things will be thrown at your head to confirm their demand. Following the fact of having your covers yanked back and people jumping on you and The Humog sniffing at your hand, we spend what seems like hours unwrapping presents and thanking everyone for what we have received. Still to this day, I am yet to receive an ugly sweater that will be shoved into the corner of my cupboard and then remembered to bring out to wear to the next Christmas shin-ding. Clearly, I have not lived life as yet.
While I am bitching about much food we are having to cook and place neatly on a platter while Lois stresses about not having enough, I remember one thing. For some reason, The Little White House is always picked to host any public holiday activities such as Australia Day, Christmas/Boxing Day, Easter and birthdays etc. The only thing that is missing is funerals and Lois would be all set. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that as Lois would be choking right about now…for those who know Lois, she isn’t interested in hosting someone’s funeral at her place. And in Lois’ defence, it is not because she stuck her hand up in the air and started waving it around madly. It simply boils down to the fact that no one else wants to host these events/holidays at their house and instead, elect Lois to do all of the planning, cooking, preparation and cleaning.
However the times that Lois has stood there and loudly said, “Fuck off! I am not having it at my house as I’ve had it here since I can remember”, the ever familiar blackmail quote is pulled out from its secret hiding place, dusted off with a tender loving hand and played into affect. “But I cannot cook as well as you and the way you do that potato bake, I could never pull that off. And besides, you cook like you are feeding the Russian Army and I don’t even know how to do that let alone plan what everyone is to eat. It’s only a small number I swear. Last time I checked it was 30 people who are coming and they are going to be here for the party tomorrow.”
|I fucking love Christmas….|
Allow me to clear my throat and in my best Dudley voice: “Thirty-six…Thirty-six but last year I had thirty-seven.”
For that one moment in time that I swear everything stops churning, my gut sinks, my hands start to sweat and my brain tries to comprehend the words, “I need you to go too the shops”. Lo and behold, with my left eye breaks out with its mad version of break dancing while still standing there trying to wrap my head around what has just been spoken. While secretly want to loudly proclaim, “Oh Hell NO!”
As Stanley Tucci once said in The Devil Wears Prada, “Alright everyone, gird your loins!”.
That is exactly what goes through my head the whole ten minute drive to the mall before finding a car park after beating some bitch to it and than bracing my hands on the steering wheel in preparation. The whole ‘get in and out’ operation always seems like a good idea at the beginning until you enter the store and see the epidemic craziness of what some women are like in desperate times. I often find myself having to deal with crazy women who are willing to go to war over a loaf of bread, run me down with their kids screaming uncontrollably because they didn’t get a lolly or their mother isn’t paying attention to them. This in return, essentially causes my unused ovaries to dry up, freeze frame themselves by clinging to the walls of uterus as I imagine two tiny voices screaming in hysterics, “NO! we’re never going to release another egg! This is torture!”.
Only for the bastards to break their promise the following week.
Or my favourite out of the whole jungle theme book being brought to life, featuring the fight scene from Mean Girls, is being rammed in the back of my legs by some fucking nut case of an elderly crazy biddy. Who is glaring at me like I had just openly murdered Mr. Twinkles, her favourite cat, before offering to cook it to her for dinner. In conclusion to the no doubt joy I am going to be experiencing (not) this Christmas, I present to you my final resting statement. In case I do happen to lean across the table and stab/punch someone, my parting words are:
I loathe Christmas Day festivities. The hours of food planning, preparation done behind scenes, copious amounts of stress, tears and sweat produced just so then you can tell us, “I don’t eat vegetables”. The three kilos of potatoes I have just been delegated to peel, by hand, with a no doubt shitty peeler because the good peeler has mysteriously vanished. Pain of having to stretch my hands from the cramping they are suffering while holding onto my fork and knife while I watch you swirl that god damn potato around your plate like it is some extra from Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift.
On top of that because I haven’t suffered enough pain, why not bring in the daggers and swap the blunt bullets for the real McCoy. If you haven’t gathered by now, I am a real masochist. This level of bitterness and pain can be experienced by family members taking it upon themselves to belittle others in the attempt of gaining a somewhat, unnecessary level of ego satisfaction. The words, “you don’t drive as smoothly as a Ferrari. Men will always pick the Ferrari” essentially come to the foreground of my mind. Which is clear swipe at the fact I am appearing fat and that I need to go on a diet to drop at least 20+ kilos. As seen in this person’s eyes that I not perfect enough because I am not as skinny as I used to once be and therefore, resemble a stick insect.
Which in turns has lead me to publicly admitting, that women like myself who wish to find themselves a partner that they can crawl up next to in bed, knowing they are going to protect you; have an inner doubt of not finding Mr. Right. This seems to become of an issues when the biological clock makes it way to centre of our brain from the background and starts to tick loudly enough that it keeps us awake at night. This soon starts the craze of us thinking about babies, finding a decent guy to make babies with. Having babies and therefore, breathing in the smell that all babies have when they are first born which smells like milk, honey and fresh laundry. Basically making a whole fucking mental scrapbook dedicated as to what our dream baby/ies are going to look. While we are mentally sizing men up and that is before we even said hello.
And in my case, if I don’t potentially find Mr. Right or at least someone who is close enough to being Mr. Right before the age of 82 when menopause kicks in; I am going to change my name to Bridget Jones. With having done that and buying myself the ‘lonely and desperate woman’s guide to seeking men’ if that is even a title of a book, I shall be finding myself in my lounge room, curled up on the couch singing this as scripted in the gif down below…
Well done me!
As for my genius moment in time, I thought it was highly appropriate as I have often found myself busting out into the song while I am in the shower or in my room because I am 100% original. Definitely should have named me Bridget, Lois. Or in other scenes when I am a party animal and having spent copious amounts of money supporting my martini intake and ever growing stash of olives, swizzle sticks and lemons. Before allowing the ever entertaining thought of writing a letter to Lady Blacksnot, who is the driver of a red Ferrari and killer bitch heels, will be the best idea I’ve had to date until receiving a text stating, “I got your letter. What the fuck did you write because I can’t understand it. How’s the cock?”
|My version of the ‘Bitch Heel’.|
Yes, sounds positively mind blowing to say the least. And then before I know it, I am sitting in an uncomfortable chair, staring out of a glass wall in front of a retirement home, enjoying the sounds of Mozart or Beethoven. Because I would have reverted back to liking classical music and wondering who I am due to the dementia I know doubt will be suffering as it is destined for my generation to be hit with it. Thanks medicine and the ever increasing facts that I sincerely do not wish to know three quarters of the time. With that, hello dementia and not finding Mr. Right in time.
Sitting in that elderly home and going over my life aspects when not affected by the dementia, I might possibly sit there and wonder, ‘why did I never marry some guy, who even though he may not have ticked all the boxes off, why did I wait until I found ‘him’?’. This then spurns my ever inquisitive mind of self doubt and somewhat self loathing into thinking, ‘Did I indeed have too many boxes that needed to be ticked off?’
This is depressing as bat shit and with that, I say: Fuck this as I am 24. So what if everyone I know is having kids and settling down, I’m still trying to face the ever increasing struggle of getting out of bed to be a university student, studying a nursing degree with the attempts of maybe graduating one day. And in the long run, maintaining what I hope to classify as some sort of level in regards to sanity and not becoming bat shit crazy. After having made this rather precise decision and not drag myself down into needing to fit a certain category to please others and the somewhat sour old bitch inside of me, I still have the next 76 years to find the perfect man with the perfect dick.
|My back up plan if all else fails.|
Who I am hoping has the ability to pull off a white shirt that has somehow gotten wet, personally I am thinking along the lines of Colin Firth playing Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. Because I am a classic lover of literature and appreciate a damn, fine looking man in a buttoned shirt. And to top it off, the personality that will make my parent’s sit there and ideally fall in love with him at first sight and Dad not wanting to stab him or make him into mince meat for The Humog. Otherwise, I am going to put my back up plan into effect.
I know that most of my readers come from places such as the Netherlands, America and Canada who experience snow as I check my map of domination as to see where I am reaching. However for me, I live in a state of Australia that has been previously known as the “the sunny state” before it being changed much to our cringe-worthy horror, “the smart state”. Which personally is a load of bullshit because our schools are ranked in the somewhat lowest throughout the country, so clearly are not a smart state at all. Queensland is a state that can be expected to experiences mass amounts of sunlight, glistening leather bodies covered in baby oil and skin cancer. Due to the fact we have somehow convinced ourselves that we aren’t brown enough and therefore need to apply more baby oil.
Personally, the people that I saw while I was at the beach made me physically cringe at how
baked and brown they were. And if I were desperate enough to be wanting a leather handbag, instead of skinny a cow and using their hide like that, why not use someone from the beach? Morbid I know, knowing that you are carrying around a human’s skin attached your arm in the shape of a handbag but the sights is just plain disgusting and mentally disturbing.
As I’ve stated previously, most Aussies are sitting in their house in front of the air con if you are lucky, wearing nut huggers. Otherwise, formally known as speedos and a bikini for the women. In my case because I like to feel like I am dying of the heat, I don’t normally get dressed until just before the guests start to arrive. Simply for the fact that when I am woken up from having things thrown at me and people screaming; I tend to stagger out of the bedroom wearing a baggy, large t-shirt as I cannot be bothered getting dressed. And its large enough to disguise the fact that I am not wearing pants underneath it for those special Christmas family photos that are taken every year and no doubt posted onto Facebook.
Which always ensures that I am in some fuck awkward position either in mid conversation, staring at the person like ‘get that shit out of my face. I need coffee, stat!’ or concentrating on my present like I am about to surgery on a patient. To which leads me to the point that I am missing out on because it has that oh so special moment and that is, I look like I’ve been punched in the eyes and my hair appears as if I haven’t brushed it for a week. And finally, I have absolutely no make up on what’s so ever. Hurry for scary naked faces being displayed on Facebook and having my face tagged in it, so even if I wanted to bury it in the back, its still there…waiting.
After spending a few more hours in the kitchen making sure that everything is okay, I normally head off to have a shower because the feeling of having flour in your hair is not comfortable to say the least. Dressing in my prison suit which consisted last year of a high waisted skirt, which I hoped helped hide the fact that I was insecure about my body and a loose black shirt. Which I also wanted to hide the fact that I had gone up another cup size and that if I even possibly thought of sneezing, I wouldn’t have been supported by anything. And it didn’t help for the matter that I had weighed myself because I am into being the whole masochist she-bang kind of deal.
As I discovered when standing on the scales, staring down at the number that was steadily becoming blurry because of the tears in my eyes, the extra cookie had now become part of the structure to my hips, butt or thighs. And even though I had been exercising, nothing was shifting however my mood was. Which in return, disempowered my comebacks to catty remarks being made about my weight and allowing me to focus on the determination of self loathing towards my outer appearance. Rather than taking a step back and realising what was essentially on the inside and that was courage, determination, happiness, love and the ability to portray an image of comfort.
Having sat here writing and now editing this, I realise it was stupid of me in allowing these comments to affect me in a negative way. It stems from me realising and understanding that I am not always going to please everyone in this world. For instance, I could get plastic surgery to change my outer appearance for a job, only to be told that I looked much prettier prior to surgery. I could dye, bleach, cut, straighten/curl my hair when I look much happier and freer as a toffee coloured hippy chick, who believes in peace and not making bombs. Or I could completely do a 360 to who I am now as a person and become someone that not only I despise but also my family members despise as well.
Finally, I could allow the voices that I face on a daily basis telling me food is my enemy to gain control. Resulting in my going through a drastic change of dieting, cutting out carbs/sugars/salts/fats and in the end starving myself while picking up some crazy exercise plan. Just so then I go from the healthy size that I am at this present point in time to fitting back into my size 6 jeans again. As I see myself as a somewhat healthy, curvy person then why would I want go back to being stick thin? I just don’t understand why society particularly women have become obsessed with fitting into children’s clothing, having our ribs protruding and our skin so thin, that we can see the veins and capillaries spidering over our bones.
All I can say as someone who has suffered anorexia for nearly 12 years, it wasn’t fun having to tack my school skirt every morning so it wouldn’t fall down. Because the smallest size my school actually carried was an 8 and clearly, that wasn’t fitting my body or that when shopping for clothes, no shop actually dealt with my size. When now, I can walk into a shop and pick out a piece of clothing that I will have to try on as I will need to go up/down a size due to the cut and style of the article.
As much as I secretly bitch about how my clothes don’t fit my waist because I have ‘child producing hips’ and I can’t seem to find a shirt that fits the length of my torso as we have become obsessed with showing off our stomachs. I still like the fact I have an actual butt than when a man grab’s hold of it, it doesn’t fit into the palm of his hand. A pair of breasts that fit nicely in his hand and that I am not flat chested. Finally, a walk that could rival Beyonce’s powerful stride that makes men and women turn around to watch me walk away from them. Knowing that I command their attention as men watch in lust and women in envy because I have that sash attitude. And besides, who doesn’t want to go to bed with a woman who curves, an arse, tits that overflow a bra and make men crumble to their knees, begging.
Besides, being curvy has a double bonus. The extra layer of plushness that no one else gets but curvy women do, is that is helps provide additional warmth against cold temperatures. Essentially this means that I probably won’t get cold easily because I have an extra bit of loving around my bones and protection if I decide on wanting to ice skate. For the first time in my life and do you get trainer wheels, a helmet, elbow and knee pads? Or do they send you out there with just your skates and the realisation that you now have to fend for your own life? If so, I’m faking a sicky.
I believe one of the many reasons as to why I have dreamt of a white Christmas is because I have never seen in person nor felt snow. As much as Lois tells me because she grew up New Zealand, snow is wet, cold, slippery and disgusting. I am one of those people who as to the horror of my parents, prefers to go and see it in action for herself. So when it comes to successfully getting my first and no doubt last white Christmas, I want to go the full hog by starting off with my lounge room appearing as if Santa’s elves had been given ecstasy and went nuts with Christmas decorations.
I can feel you thinking, ‘you wanted a white Christmas and now you’re staying inside? That’s shit.’ Ah my faithful reader, you may have jumped your gun and counted your chickens before they hatched.
After peeling back the curtains to the window, I will no doubt let out a squeal and begin to bounce up and down on the spot while clapping my hands. Getting dressed would a rushed task before running outside.
Where I would play in the snow creating things, destroying things in the process to make something bigger and bette; until I resembled something of a human meat popsicle. After dusting myself off, I would come inside and take off my wet clothes before changing into something deliciously warm, cosy and overall smelling like man. Not being able to resist the smell that I would imagine being a combination of pine, blue stratos, deodorant and sex; I would collapse on the couch in front of a fire.