Read the most ridiculous story this week about a submission to the British Medical Journal -- which they should be ashamed for accepting -- about the negative influence of Santa, specifically how he promotes obesity and drunkeness.
Dr Grills declared: "Other dangerous activities that Santa could be accused of promoting include speeding, disregard for road rules, and extreme sports such as roof surfing and chimney jumping."
Now I am never going to claim that I have a great love of Christmas. I get myself in a tizzy about decorating, buying gifts, spending money, wrapping, you name it. I hate when the season starts and I count the days until it is over.
But, I do encouorage my son to believe in Santa.
Childhood is so fleeting and the magic inherently lies in those simple flights of fancy and the power of fairy dust. Hope, fantasy, imagination: children possess those in abundance, and they all slowly errode with experience and time.
There is no such thing as prince charming or love at first sight. But with perseverance, hard work, good decisions, love and lots of laughs, you can make a good life.
Until that time, he can have Santa.
Christmas around my house is always an interesting time. I'm the grinch, but I do my best to hide it so the ball of fire will get the most enjoyment of the season. So when I woke up crabby with a roiling stomach on Christmas morning, I chalked it up to my usual holiday cheer. By Wednesday, the stomach was more than roiling, it was protesting, loudly and with vigor. When the roiling turned into a sharp pain in my right side, I knew things were not going well. The hubby eventually convinced me to pay a friendly visit to the local emergency room, where it was soon discovered that my appendix no longer wanted to be part of the family. A few hours and a few well-placed cuts later, and we were soon parted. I was left with three neat little holes, one through my once-beautifully-pierced belly button, to remind me that there are much worse things than Christmas that I could worry about. Next year, I'll just be thankful that everyone is healthy! (Someone will need to remind me of this next year when I start bitching about the holidays..)
Only four more days until Christmas. Unlike most people, I'm counting down the days until it's over and all this crap can go back into the closet. Until then, I smile, make cookies, ensure the ball of fire is excited, all while drinking lots of wine and spending long amounts of time with my iPod.Ohhh, we can begin again. Shed our skin, let the sun shine in. At the edge of the ocean, We can start over again.
"To perceive Christmas through its wrapping becomes more difficult with every year." ~ E. B. White
For those of you who may be unaware, the question, "When are you going to pop out another one?" is rude as hell. My -- or any woman for that matter -- reproductive schedule is none of your business. It's like asking a man if he masturbated in the shower this morning. It's not your place to ask, nor should you care. And you wonder why I don't like family functions.My answer, "Never. I'm barren. Ball of fire was actually left on the doorstep by the stork. But thanks for reminding me that my uterus is a wasteland from which no fruit will ever grow. Happy Thanksgiving!"Here endeth the lesson.Fuckers.
Read the most ridiculous story this week about a submission to the British Medical Journal -- which they should be ashamed for accepting -- about the negative influence of Santa, specifically how he promotes obesity and drunkeness.
