A Christmas Newsletter Without the Bull$*@#

Hello, friends and family! Well, except for those of you who refuse to get vaccinated because you get your medical advice from Joe Rogan. And also those of you who believe Hillary Clinton drinks the blood of babies she trafficks through a pizzeria basement. If you’ve ever muttered anything about Hunter Biden’s laptop, you’re in this group too. Y’all are dead to me.

For the rest of you, though, I thought I’d take some time to update you on how our family has fared during this, our second pandemic year. We’re alive. That’s it. That’s the update. It’s good that we’re alive, right? I’m not sure anymore.

My husband is still working from home. He had a brief stint at the office a few months back but, after a couple of people in the office almost died, they decided it was better for office morale and workplace productivity to keep people alive so they sent him back home.

He has kept his creeping nervous breakdown at bay by becoming obsessed with NFTs. Motherf#$&er thinks he’s Elon Musk. It’s all he talks about. I haven’t made him sleep in the garage yet, which I think is pretty generous of me.

Our oldest child is doing well. As well as one can be when they’ve graduated with their master’s degree and couldn’t find a job in their field so now they work at in the service industry and barely make ends meet. One of their coworkers was burned in the face with hot oil and was then told to go back to work instead of seeking medical treatment. They might be permanently scarred. Gee, I wonder why kids don’t want to work these days. They must be lazy.

Our youngest is 15 and in his short life he’s seen his mother diagnosed with a rare sarcoma, a climate crisis ensue with no solution on the horizon, an attempted coup, and a 100 year pandemic. He hasn’t had a haircut in two years. He looks like Robert Plant. I don’t know if that glorious mane offsets the damage to his mental health, but it is something to behold. So, he’s got that going for him.

I am hanging on by a thread. I am menopausal. I have hot flashes every hour on the hour. At night I flop around like a dying fish because of the insomnia. I can no longer tolerate caffeine. WTF?!?!?! My husband is obsessed with fake art. My children are withering on the vine. WHY THE HELL WON’T YOU JUST GET THE VACCINE?!?!? JOE ROGAN IS NOT A DOCTOR!!!

The dog is, well, he’s the dog. He’s only been left alone twice since the pandemic started and can literally not emotionally handle it if we step outside. Like, he can see us and he’s still panicking! We dropped him off at the vet for his yearly checkup and that night he came home and crapped all over my brand new carpet. Everywhere! Steaming piles of stress all over the house!

So I steam cleaned everything and then he did it again the next night! Even though I steam cleaned everything twice over I still sometimes get a whiff of something. I honestly don’t know if it’s all in my head or not, but sometimes my husband will walk in the room and I’ll be facedown in the carpet trying to find the source of the smell. I will beg and plead with him, “Don’t you smell that?” He never smells it.

We have visitors coming for the holidays, but I’ve yet to prepare. Today is my 28th anniversary, I think. First, we fought over what today’s date was and then we had to math real hard to figure out how long we’ve been married. I’m like 85% sure it’s 28 years. We settled on a big bucket to hold our firewood as our gift to each other because nothing says romance like a big bucket of dead wood. Am I right?

Tonight I have to set up luminaries for some stupid neighborhood something or other. We live in a Clark Griswold Christmas Vacation kind of neighborhood. You can see our street from outer space. You will probably notice the one lone dark house on the block. That would be ours.

I would have decorated, but a squirrel chewed through an extension cord we had for our Halloween decorations, blew out the outside socket, and we’ve yet to find an electrician who will even return our call. So maybe the neighbors should stop giving us the stink eye and aim their hatred toward that squirrel.

Monday is my son’s 16th birthday. I have to bake him a cake. Have I procured the ingredients for said cake? Nah. Have I even figured out what kind of cake I’m making? Nope. Will I be nominated for Mother of the Year? That would also be a solid no.

As for the New Year, I won’t be doing sh**. I’ll most likely binge eat some ice cream and down a bottle of Prosecco in front of the fire. I’ll watch Love, Actually and cry. I’ll plot Alan Rickman’s death, even though he’s already dead, because he did Emma Thompson so wrong in that movie he deserves to die twice.

I don’t have any resolutions to carry me into 2022. I’m just going to drag myself over the finish line, bloodied, bruised, and in desperate need of therapy, and continue living the same existence I have BECAUSE OF YOU SELFISH STUPID F%#@S WHO CLING TO WILLFUL IGNORANCE LIKE A TODDLER DOES TO ITS BLANKIE.

But maybe I’ll pledge to exercise more. A gal has to be fit and ready for the upcoming zombie apocalypse. What can I say? My people survived the potato famine, so surely I can go on living through whatever hellscape this is. I’m dead inside, but I’m determined!

I hope this newsletter finds you and your family well. Happy Holidays and all that jazz! Try not to die, I guess. I don’t know.