The Eve of all Eves

I don't know how your Christmas Eve went, but mine was exhausting.
It's no surprise.
I did what I do every year. Which is to say, everything.
(Except shave my legs. Merry Christmas Hubby!)


Christmas downsizing is not my specialty.

I'm not complaining though (well, maybe I am a little). I love Christmas. Really, I do. And part of my problem is at the same time I don't downsize - I don't want to downsize.



I'm considering starting a clinic, you know, like Betty Ford did, except this one would be for excessive Christmastime addictions. We would have individual class, therapy-dog visits, yoga, and group sessions . . . . . .



" I have a hard time saying this out loud,---" (Bliss)

"---Go right ahead, no one is going to judge you." (psychologist, group leader)

"Well, I . . I, I can't give someone a gift with curly ribbon on it. I've tried. So many times, oh how I've tried. But . . . like once I made hubby drive 3 miles out of our way, just to pick up the right kind of wired-edged, 2" wide, ruby red ribbon. ---I know it's wrong. I know it's wrong. I just . . I just can't change . . ." (Bliss)

" . . all the cookie baking was done, but I ate so many I had to start all over, one day before the neighborhood Christmas Cookie Exchange."
(anonymous sufferer #2).

"---I get sick just thinking my girls might grow-up and struggle with the same Kohls Early-Bird dependency I have. It's no way to live. . . ."
(anonymous sufferer #3) (whole group nods)

"Now, now ladies--and gentleman, --sorry Joe---
---remember we're amongst friends here. There's no reason to be so hard on yourselves."
(psychologist)

" . . . I've never found a Christmas magazine I didn't like.' (anonymous sufferer #2) 'They're stuffed in the pantry, under beds, behind the water heater. One day my husband is going to find them -- and I don't know what I'll do! He thinks I'm saving Ensigns and Better Wife magazine!
---Sometimes, when it's late at night, I sneak out of bed and lock myself in the downstairs bathroom to read them over again in secret. I memorize mincemeat pie recipes and cut-out ornament stencils.
I feel like such a failure!" (tears)

" . . . my calligraphy blows!" (anonymous sufferer #4)

"---Okay, okay. That's enough, everyone. Let's move on to something else, shall we?"
(psychologist)

~~~~~~~~~




My day starts out pleasant enough.

I sleep in a wee bit, then the kids and I head out to Hubby's work party. His employer always throws a Christmas-Eve-day family lunch, barbecue.

You ain't seen blue collar 'til you've had a tri-tip with these Real Men.

Every other guy has on a truckers hat with sayings like 'Girls are Wussys' or 'I had Bear for Lunch' or 'Am I Talkin' to You?'

Most have just crawled out of an air intake or motor of some kind, and haven't washed their hands since last nights shower. And the language!!


When the kids were little, I use to cover their ears, or whisper to them 'he said 'fudge,' 'fudge~ !'

Now with the kids older and mingling themselves, I'm stuck alone trying to hang with PottyMouthMike.

I have no choice but to throw out Utahisms like 'oh my heck,' or 'for sleeping in a bucket!' just to keep up. I start lookin' like a country bumpkin real soon (no disrespect intended, Utah).

(I get in the same pickle at boutiques and craft fairs--except those Utahisms are a lot cleaner.)
---'Jezebel, that's cute!'
---'I spy, --that's darlin', darlin', darlin'!'
---'Zip me up and send me to the Celestial kingdom! That's homemade??'




After the work party we go on a round of visits with the relatives, stop for last minute errands, and make a couple of gift drop-offs.

Already dark, and once home--I begin the 400 cinnamon-rolls ritual for Christmas morning breakfast, plus the recently added apple pie self-made assignment after hearing Hubby sigh,

'It'd be great to have fresh apple pie for Christmas eve, wouldn't it?'


Soon he's on the couch unwinding, and in his fourth hour of The Christmas Story or Elve reruns.
He'd help if I asked him to. But -- I don't. I'm in such a zombie frenzied state -- I can't let anyone in -- even Hubby.


It's my own fault. I leave way too much to do in one night.

At midnight I finally finish wrapping the last kid gifts with whatever is close by.
Strangers and extended family--they got the pretty stuff.

Plastic the newspaper came in? That's fine. I throw a cd in it and wrap a yard of tape around and around the ink stained bag.
Empty Kleenex box? Good. I drop a pair of socks inside, stuff with tissue, and fat-marker a name on one edge.

"Hey! Don't chuck that empty toilet paper roll, Hubby." ----

I slip a gift card in it and tape over the ends. ---To You Son, With Love---




Ahh.
Just once instead of all that work, I'd like to cuddle the whole evening away with Hubby, by the fire.

Did I say cuddle the evening away with Hubby, by the fire?
---I meant be in bed by 10:00, and sleep slobber'ing on my pillow.