I'm starting to feel a little bit like Bad Santa. I mean, let's be honest here. I've had a potty mouth since junior high, when Tina Casey and I made up a cheer entirely of swear words and walked all over the Pernell School campus yelling it at the top of our lungs. I still remember it, actually, and yes, it even rhymed. Time in the Army certainly didn't hurt either. During my last (ever) stint on active duty, a soldier walked into my office and cursed about something. Then he apologized to me, mostly because I was a woman, but also because I scared him a little (I kind of miss that). I calmly responded, "No f'ing problem", and moved on to the next thing.
Anyhoo, I've noticed, over the last week, that I don't really think of Christmas anymore without cursing, as in, "Sweet jesus, it's only six days away! When am I going to get this f'ing kitchen put together, and where the hell am I going to hide it then?"
Don't get me wrong. I LOVE Christmas. I embrace the secular, sacred, and pagan aspects of this holiday in all their commercial, inaccurate, bigoted, misguided glory. Given the time, I would develop a multicultural Christmas experience diverse enough to earn me a minor in world studies. And the fun of Christmas morning, when three kiddos will wake me before dawn and beg me to let them "just look" at the presents for at least an hour before I am able to struggle to consciousness, well, that kind of innocent joy and excitement is hard to match.
Between now and then, however, I have to construct a (big, bright) kitchen, a toy car parking garage (with helipad and car wash), and a three-way convertible baby carriage. And the list of items to be wrapped is longer, somehow, than the shopping list I started out with a few weeks back.
On the bright side, it's Christmas in Austin, and we are guaran-damn-teed to have weather warm enough to make the all-nighter in the garage bearable. If I can just remember to buy the f'ing batteries for the "commote control dinosaur", things will work out fine.
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