I’m sorry I haven’t been extremely bloggy lately and, judging from the quiet messages I’m getting from some of you (which I’m grateful for), I feel like I should poke my head up long enough to assure y’all that I’m doing just fine. I promise you that the recent declaration of bankruptcy by Hostess, the makers of the Twinkie, did not send me over the edge. You can send the producers from Hoarders on over if you like…you’ll find no partially-hydrogenated stockpile here.
The truth is that I’m busy with holiday hoo-hah, including overnight guests and socializing with friends (which includes forcing Hot Mess Hubby to socialize as well…always a good time). As we get further into December, I’m freshly reminded of the absolute Hot Mess I was this time last year…how much I’ve grown…and how far I’ve come. I have a sort of funky, new-found pride about it. I’m proud, but this feeling is new to me and I resist allowing myself to celebrate the victory that 2012 has been for me. I’ll touch more on that later (probably tomorrow, actually).
Today is about Santa. The nine year old who still lives in my heart absolutely loves Santa. I admit, even though Hot Mess Hubby and I were not blessed with children of our own, I watch NORAD’s Santa tracker on Christmas Eve with all the thrill and wonderment I had back in the days of footed jammies and hot cocoa before bed. I love this time of year.
As an adult, however, I also have to deal with all the grown-up chores that my chronological age has saddled me with – leaving precious little time for believing in jolly fat men and flying reindeer. Hot Mess Hubby and I don’t buy each other lots of presents at Christmas time. It isn’t because we don’t care or we don’t love each other…we’re just the kind of people who don’t wait for a special occasion to give each other presents. For example, he’s been absolutely drooling over some grilling/smoking monstrosity that’s supposed to be particularly badass and he bought it for himself. We were also recently able to replace the hideous piece of crap refrigerator we had for a brand new shiny one. As far as we’re concerned, we don’t need anything else right now. Except for stocking stuffers…because some Christmas traditions should never be messed with. Ever.
I have a special place in my heart for stocking stuffers. When my brother and I were little, we would wake up super early on Christmas morning and sit at the edge of the hallway and stare at all the presents while we waited for the rest of the family to wake up. It was torturous to wait, but we sat there like the good kids we were and we whispered to each other about what we thought was in all those packages. Santa never wrapped his gifts, so of course we drooled over the site of new toys we couldn’t touch yet. New bikes…a new doll for me…or, one year in particular, a brand new Millennium Falcon for my brother. He nearly cried.
Then everything would happen so quickly. Our family would wake up…one of our older siblings would play Santa and pass out the presents while we all took turns opening them. It was always so wonderful and always over so quickly. By late morning, our home was filled with the smells of Mom in the kitchen making Christmas dinner. We would sit around the living room watching tv and playing with our new toys…and just as I would begin to really feel sorry that it was over till next year, something would make me look up towards the fireplace. The stockings!!!! We have to look in our stockings!!!!!
Those stockings were always like having a little bonus surprise after all the hoopla was over (like we needed a bonus). I was always overjoyed when I realized we weren’t quite done yet – and even when I got into my teenage years and it was no longer cool for me to believe in Santa, I was never too cool to turn my nose up at the fun of a loaded Christmas stocking. (For the record, I was 100% the opposite of cool.)
That’s why I have such a special place in my heart for Christmas stockings…and that’s why, even now, I insist that the hubby and I fill each other’s stockings up with little trinkets and baubles…and no candy in mine, thank you. Why poke a dragon with a sharp stick, ya know?
This year has been all about healthy changes for me and, as such, I have seen an awful lot of crazy shit out there. Crazy shit that’s manufactured in the name of health, fitness, or just look’in goooood. Unless it’s jewelry, Hot Mess Hubby’s not extremely talented at gift giving – and we can’t afford jewelry. I’d kill him. He knows not to put any candy in my stocking…and my stocking is too small to fit a Dooney & Bourke in…so I run the risk of getting some absolutely nightmarish gadget in my stocking. I’m a little scared.
Here are a few of my least favorites.
Wonder Sauna Hot Pants! For those days when I don’t feel like I’m quite blown up enough:
This puts the pole in North Pole, baby:
Okay, I know it’s the latest fitness craze but I just can’t see it that way. I’m all for sex’in it up for my man, but I have to draw the line at rubbing Crisco on my ass and gett’in jiggy by wrapping my tree trunk legs around a tiny little pole. Unless they make them in titanium and it comes with a free 5 gallon drum of margaritas.
The Sauna Suit.
Ooh! One size fits all! Really? I’m pretty much think’in if I shove myself in those plastic pantaloons my ass is bust’in out the back like a jumbo pizza box rips through a dollar store trash bag. Pretty damn quick.
The waist trimmer.
I’m pretty sure I’d need two or three of these suckers velcro’d together to cover me. Really, it’s just going make all my extra bits and pieces squeeze out so that I look like a giant chubby hourglass. No thanks. I prefer that my body shrinks proportionately. 🙂
Booty Pop panties. For when your ass isn’t big enough. I have literally never had this problem.
No. Just no. This is where all our crazy shit starts. Well, first it starts with a donut…or a pizza…but it always comes around to some diet book that we’re going to follow and get thin. And it never happens. Why? Because what works for some will not work for others and we have to stop attacking this problem with a cookie cutter mentality. Find what works for you. YOU. Don’t listen to all these people (who are making money off our inability to lose weight, by the way). Don’t listen. Find your own path.
So yeah, Santa…please don’t bless my house with your sack (snicker) if you’re pack’in any of this hoo-hah. I’m enough of a Hot Mess without it. Instead of a plus sized titanium pole or a pair of undies that makes my booty pop, I’ll settle for peace on Earth and goodwill for all mankind. If you could pull that out of your sleigh, I’d surely appreciate it.