I wrote my letter to Santa the other night and handed it to Matt, who promised that he'd get it to St. Nick.
I've been fantasizing about the Christmas letter I'd like to put in my cards this year, but as I explained to a colleague today, the phrase "shitbag" probably doesn't belong in Yuletide Greetings. As in, "This year has been something of a shitbag."
Explaining that with Dad sick, etc... the year has been hard. She pointed out that everything was OK now, though.
And she's right. But the thing is, I didn't deal with anything while it was going badly, and it's catching up with me now.
But since most people see it as fixed, and thereby, a non-issue, they're mostly interested in cauterizing the wound whenever I start to kvetch.
Who can blame them? Nobody wants to see months-old agony on display.
Still, I may write that letter and post it here for your amusement, or, so that you can recommend that the doc up my dosage on the meds.
It's funny - speaking of docs - when I was meeting my GP for the first time, he was asking if I was under any stress, and I was trying to give him a sense of the preceeding few months, and about halfway through, he indicated that he got the point. I remember thinking, "Please don't interrupt my narrative - I have worked very hard to develop it."
Clearly, I think highly of my storytelling abilities. Which is good - what is a corporate training session if not a very technical bedtime tale?
Well, mes amis, it's Friday. What does that mean? Well, it means that I'm doing a lot of laundry this weekend, as I again find myself running low on the essentials. Hopefully, it means a trip to the Kroger for basics (which basically means everything), and it for sure means a haircut at 8AM tomorrow.
My salon starts every cut with a scalp massage. That alone is worth the price of admission.
And finally, Mom and Dad have named their new Pug. His name is Rocky, after an old friend of theirs from Jamaica whose real name was Vincent Harriet.
In my mind, though, when I think Rocky, it's in Tim Curry's transvestite growl... 'Rrrrockeh!"
I may have to put some eyeshadow on the dog. At the least - paint some glitter polish on his claws.
Mmmm, festive!
Sorry Santa, I've been nice all year, I gotta throw in a little variety.
I've been fantasizing about the Christmas letter I'd like to put in my cards this year, but as I explained to a colleague today, the phrase "shitbag" probably doesn't belong in Yuletide Greetings. As in, "This year has been something of a shitbag."
Explaining that with Dad sick, etc... the year has been hard. She pointed out that everything was OK now, though.
And she's right. But the thing is, I didn't deal with anything while it was going badly, and it's catching up with me now.
But since most people see it as fixed, and thereby, a non-issue, they're mostly interested in cauterizing the wound whenever I start to kvetch.
Who can blame them? Nobody wants to see months-old agony on display.
Still, I may write that letter and post it here for your amusement, or, so that you can recommend that the doc up my dosage on the meds.
It's funny - speaking of docs - when I was meeting my GP for the first time, he was asking if I was under any stress, and I was trying to give him a sense of the preceeding few months, and about halfway through, he indicated that he got the point. I remember thinking, "Please don't interrupt my narrative - I have worked very hard to develop it."
Clearly, I think highly of my storytelling abilities. Which is good - what is a corporate training session if not a very technical bedtime tale?
Well, mes amis, it's Friday. What does that mean? Well, it means that I'm doing a lot of laundry this weekend, as I again find myself running low on the essentials. Hopefully, it means a trip to the Kroger for basics (which basically means everything), and it for sure means a haircut at 8AM tomorrow.
My salon starts every cut with a scalp massage. That alone is worth the price of admission.
And finally, Mom and Dad have named their new Pug. His name is Rocky, after an old friend of theirs from Jamaica whose real name was Vincent Harriet.
In my mind, though, when I think Rocky, it's in Tim Curry's transvestite growl... 'Rrrrockeh!"
I may have to put some eyeshadow on the dog. At the least - paint some glitter polish on his claws.
Mmmm, festive!
Sorry Santa, I've been nice all year, I gotta throw in a little variety.
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