My beef with Christmas

  I’m sorry for those who are fa-la-laing it through this month but I’m disenchanted.
  Back in the glory days of Christmas past there was drunken caroling, eggnog, and HOMEMADE presents. And more eggnog, but I digress, now we are so commercialized that no one dreams of daddy going outside and witteling a toy train for junior. Or mother painstakingly stitching little miss a new dress. We just go out on black Friday and trample Walmart employees to death (who by the way aren’t making enough to participate in the “sale”) so that we can get our overly spoiled children the newest electronic garbage. Which they want five of and will cry for days if “santa” doesn’t come through.
  Speaking of Santa, the myth was always told to me that elves worked for most of the months of the year MAKING toys. Well if the toy clearly came from toys R us, then what part did the elves have? Did they go BUY said toy? THAT’S ABSURD!
  My parents never perpetuated the Santa thing, from an early age I knew mom and daddy were working their bums off so I could get my copy of David Copperfield and my brand new jammies. My step kids however are told the Santa thing by just about their whole family. Which I think makes them ungrateful for the sacrifices we make for them, and is unrealistic in this time because NONE of the toys they want are homemade. They may be made by other children working 15hr days in sweatshops, but not by someone who cares for them.
  When did Christmas lose it’s magic? It’s angels, and the spirit of Christmas where everyone wishes for world peace and buys tiny Tim a goose so he has a meal? Now we’d push tiny Tim down the stairs if it meant we could be that much closer to the new leappad mini. Or force tiny Tim to make it for our children. For all of our children. Why does no one else see this as absurd?
  This is my beef with Christmas: it’s gone too far. Make your kids a new hat and gloves this year. YouTube search how to do this. Also make them wander into the slums and help at a soup kitchen, or make them go around handing out toys to underprivileged children. But don’t trample any more of those wonderful retail workers who bust their butts just to put food on the table for their own families. Oh yeah, and drink a bunch of eggnog. It’s the only good thing left in this crap holiday.



     This year I have a lot to be thankful for; mostly mundane things, for instance I’m thankful when I smashed my toe that it didn’t fall off to spite me for thunking it so thoroughly. Or how thankful I am that everything I’ve managed to set fire to at work, has been contained in an oven, and was relatively easy to extinguish.
     But the main thing I’m thankful for is my latest addition to my pile of friends (yes it’s a pile, maybe they like it that way, don’t be so judgmental).  I’m very thankful that in January of this year (2013) I met my favorite rhino/mermaid Farrah Yarwood.
   Let me back up; in January I received a job in dietary at a nursing facility very close to my house (and the best one there is) (ever), and met Farrah who trained me to be a dietary aide. I was so confused after that day of training I wanted to cry. Luckily I got trained by others so I didn’t mess up too terribly (or cry into someone’s chocolate milk). I’m pretty sure it was the second day knowing her that she turned to me and said: “would you want to be my friend if I was a rhino?” To which I replied: “fucking right I’d ride you to the bar and shout ‘one shot for me and an extra for my flipping RHINO!!'” And it’s been love ever since.
   One day I dragged my husband out to the local bar because he “had to meet this amazingly nice girl that works with me.” Farrah ran up to greet him shouting (drunkenly) “YOUR MOTHER’S A BITCH!” To which he got offended and she proceeded to apologize the rest of the evening for (whilst I laughed uproariously and tried to pass off as a cough) (didn’t work by the way).  After his encounter we decided we should adopt Farrah as our third child (or sisterwife ) so she became my bestfriend-sisterwife-daughter! (Pennsylvania can be as bad as west Virginia y’all).
   Farrah and I have come up with multiple inside jokes relating to our awesome dancing ability, our cooking skills, and other things we do that’s awesome and may end up hurting us. (Or catching on fire) (indeed our dance moves are sick enough to be flammable).  We even wrote a whole new version of the night before Christmas: t’was the night before Christmas and all through the facility, not a creature was stirring, not even a pushpa. The cookies were set by the oven with care, the smell of burning plastic filled the air, and that’s how we knew team feather was there!
  I’ve fallen in love with Farrah’s little quirks, like how when her social anxiety acts up she will just spout the first thing that comes to her mind, like “so, one time  I was head butted by a goat and I bled internally!” And I’m confident she loves mine too! I think.
  Life tosses us some hard balls (sometimes it tosses lawnchairs as well), but sometimes it tosses us a blessing (or a rhino)! And I’m forever grateful to whatever is up there for letting Farrah come into my life. She makes up for a whole lot of lawnchairs.