Bonanza Jellybean

Just Call Me a Rude Name, and Let's Get on With It

Just check Dinkin Mess if you want. I am finding I like it better there now.

Sorry.

Feel free to dismiss me entirely from your mental rolodex.

I Guess Saying "Humbug" Might Be Redundant At This Point

Here comes Christmas again.
Which, honestly, just puts me in a mood because I have to SPEND.

I hate that fucking word: SPEND. That's all I have to do at Christmas. Spend, spend, FUCKING SPEND.

And I don't just mean MONEY. OHHH NOOOO.
I LIKE to spend money. Normally.
My savings account is a good reflection of that fact.
I like to spend it on Soccer Chick, on attempting to dress my husband so he looks presentable in public and doesn't fall into that male "all shades of blue match" trap, on myself, on trying to make my house nice, on yarn for crochet projects that I will most likely find too difficult and never finish (you'd be amazed what you can accomplish by only knowing one stitch, even when you do it wrong for six months and can't figure out why shit is always too small), etc.

Aside from having to spend my money, which I really kind of like to keep for myself, on people that I really kind of don't like (but have bound to by some strange genetic code with a twisted-ass sense of humor that was never within my control), which I think I have mentioned before, PISSES ME OFF, it's the other thing I have to spend.

The thing I don't have ANY of.

TIME.

Have to spend time shopping.
Have to spend time thinking of what to get people.
Have to spend time traveling.
Have to spend time on the house making it fucking festive.
Have to spend time cooking.
Have to spend time on the phone making plans on how to fit everyone in.
Have to spend time in stores with crazy-ass motherfuckers who can't park, can't control their children, and can't comprehend how to make it through a check-out line in under 12 minutes.
Have to spend time with my family.
Have to spend time with his family.
Have to spend extra time at work to get everything done so I can take some time off.
Have to spend my vacation time at work so I can spend time with...
Shit. You get the point.

Did I also mention that we have two soccer things this month that will both take a full weekend out of town that we have to attend? Yeah.

I'm also beginning to hate "have to," now that I think about it.

But honestly, THAT'S ALL CHRISTMAS IS ANYMORE.
Enforced gaiety. Mandatory generosity. Simulated family love.
Yuck.

Lest you think I'm just a big fat fucking scrooge, I would like everyone to know that I TRIED, PEOPLE. I really did. When Dutch Oven and Soccer Chick went to visit his mother for Thanksgiving (you'll notice I skirted that fine family fun event), I decided to try and make it nice for the when they came home that night. I put up the Christmas tree, I decorated the house, and I even went to the store to get garland and bows for our front gate. It was lovely. I felt the beginnings of Christmas spirit stirring.

The dog chewed on the bows and the garland within days. Now I have Christmas confetti for a gate decoration. And a dog who probably has a gut full of 3 dollar wire from WalMart.
TWELVE FUCKING ACRES for the dog to frolic, and he beelines for the front gate to attack an innocent 92 cent bow. Genius.

Or that by destroying my meager effort at Christmas cheer, he's telling me something.

It's sad when someone who spends most of his day chasing cats and licking his balls turns out to be smarter than you.

Just Sticking My Toe Into the Water...

You know, to see if it falls off. Which would be OK right now if it would take my ankle with it.

Old people (over 30) really shouldn't play organized team sports.

Especially when they're hyper-competitive and tend toward the aggressive.

Not that I'm mentioning anyone in particular.

But back to the toe-dipping...

I decided to write something today. Why? I really have no idea.

I had given up on the whole thing because who really (and I know I already said all of this at least 59 times before) needs to read about the husband's farts and the kid's soccer and the animals falling apart and the strange-ass people I work with and what I think of random celebrities and whatnot? Nobody, that's who.

And it's not like I have anything better to say now. My life is depressingly content-free.

But I kind of miss the writing.