A Mummy Christmas:

Sometime in August….

Shit, Christmas is coming better start buying stuff and budgeting.

October:

OK, getting this and this and this for the kids. Start shopping.

November:

Take the items back to the store cause the kids have changed their minds.

December:

Write Christmas cards, organise who, what and when for Christmas Day.

Buy, wrap and sort presents for a bazillion people. Including teachers, distant relatives.

Get kids to write letters to Santa.

Unwrap and take toys back to the store.

Organise and drive kids to various Christmas functions.

Bake, bake, bake.

Decorate.

Confirm who is coming for Christmas dinner.

Organise and buy food for Christmas day, write THE PLAN.

Rewrite THE PLAN a million times and then give up and hope you can wing it.

Buy, organise, dig out clothes for various functions and Christmas.

Bake, bake, bake. Shop, shop, shop.

Start various heartfelt homemade gifts.

Week before Christmas:

Wake at 5am every morning to get everything ready for the big day.

Find handwritten Christmas Cards in a pile of junk that is accumulating on the kitchen bench. Vow to post them right away.

Write a large note to self and put on the fridge ‘Take turkey out of the freezer!’  cause microwaved half thawed turkey aint the same I’m telling ya!

Chuck heartfelt homemade half finished projects in a box and buy something less heartfelt and homemade and promise yourself you will write a kick arse card.

Reconfirm dinner guests and replan food choices for picky eaters.

Drive family members here, there and everywhere and inform children that no, we will NOT be spending $50 on each and every one of their friends. Here is a candy cane. Wrap that.

Peace and quiet while said children fume in their rooms muttering something about how heartless and cruel you are. Contemplate taking gifts back to the store and giving them potatoes/coal for Christmas.

Christmas Eve:

Mad dash to the store before they shut because you have forgotten something vitally important. And the batteries. And wine.  Lots and lots of wine.

Find Christmas Cards. Throw in a box and vow to send even better ones next year.

Find out that so and so is not coming tomorrow, but Mother of the Year has invited some strays. Work out how to stretch the meal without missing out completely (like I did one year!! By the time I got everyone organised there was no fucking turkey left!)

Wrap last minute gifts.

Bake, bake, bake.

Visit friends and go see Christmas lights.

Drink far too much spiked eggnog.

Kids in bed.

Fall into bed around 3am.

Christmas Day:

Up at 5am to put turkey in oven.

Sit with the kids and husband while they open their gifts.

A Daddy Christmas:

Christmas Day:

Cool! Look what I got! What did you get honey?

Mummy: Get me a fucking coffee and we will call it square.

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Dear Mr Toy Manufacturer,

Or can I just call you Capitalist Bastard CB for short? Ta. I assume that you are male, as no woman who does 99% of the present wrapping of the world would be so fucking stupid as to allow toys to be shaped as they are.

Balls I can cope with. I have even managed to wrap a bike. My wrapping skillz are world renown. But how the fuck am I supposed to wrap this thing neatly?

yadayada.jpg    wrapped2.jpg

I mean REALLY CB, what were you smoking when you approved the shape of this thing? And what about this:

car.jpg

And this:

controller.jpg

And while I am at it, why on Gods green earth do you wrap the toys in impenetrable plastic and then not include the freaking batteries? I have to either demolish the packaging and make the kids think that Santa got the gift from the reject bin of Kmart to get the fucking batteries in or on 2 hours sleep and with a hangover that would kill a goat (from the iced eggnog…. mmmm eggnog) wrestle with the packaging whilst my kid jumps from foot to foot begging me to hurry the fuck up. By the time I have finished they have lost interest and eating the contents of their stocking while I am distracted and will not eat the turkey that took me 6 fucking hours to cook I lovingly baked.

I am thanking sweet Jesus that my girls are no longer into Barbies and the like, cause those fuckers are held down with shit loads of plastic ties, pieces of string and other paraphernalia meant to make parents rue the day they said ‘Yeah, lets forget the condom tonight’ or ‘I think I took my pill, oh what the heck’ or ‘roll over’ or whathaveyou.

Now CB, you know we will never let your profits fall cause your wonderful subliminal advertising has us wrestling each other in the toy store aisles for the last whatever-the-fuck-is-the-ultimate-toy-that-year or ringing around the world, or even whinging on our blogs trying to find our child the perfect gift that will be gathering dust by mid January, but I am pleading with you to please please make the bastards easier to wrap? Those of us with OCD tendencies want the tree to look all Martha Stewart before our tiny terrorists little angels demolish it before our sleep deprived eyes. And things that have taken hours to wrap end up looking like the dog has mauled them and make our little perfect housewife eyes twitch and have us reaching for the wine to dull the pain.

I honestly think for the amount of cash we bring your way you could keep us in mind before you approve the need-scissors-machete-every-freaking-screwdriver-and-blowtorch-to-open packaging for your wonderful must have toys.

Oh, and don’t outsource to China. Lead is not part of my kids diet.

Could you pass on a message to the asshats that make ‘clear’ tape? Tell ’em that the stuff is not freaking clear at all and if they need a lesson on what is ‘clear’ means just give me a call and after I have finished ripping them a new arsehole I will read them the dictionary definition.

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Choke on a turkey bone and DIE yours sincerely,

Rocking in the corner with a bottle of wine Mummy.

Me-fucking-oow.

We bought Boo a cubby for Christmas.

This one.

Now look at the picture.  What do you think we get for our fucking $1100.

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The top.

Not the poles, not the sandpit underneath and no freaking way are we getting the slide and God Forbid that ladder.

I am pissed.

But not pissed enough to actually fight for my rights it seems.

Cause I am a pussy.

I was all ‘Oh, OK, I just assumed it came with everything pictured for 1 fucking GRAND for that price.  Can I order them?  Oh, OK, yes I understand you need to take a break.  Sometime around the end of January? No fucking WAY! Well that is sort of…… oh OK.  I can go down and get it from the supplier you say? Not unless they are open between 2 and 3am cause that is the only time I have an opening in my calender. Umm, don’t know if I can do that.  Can’t they courier it up?  Oh, no they can’t then….OK.  I guess that is OK.  Yes I will come and pick up the stupid freaking half cubby ASAP.  Thanks.’

Click.

What the fuck happened there?  What is wrong with me?  No it isn’t OK!!!!

OK, jump on the internet and look up the supplier.  Call them.

‘Hi, I have just bought one of your Forts and it looks like from the brochure  that it comes with everything shown.  But I have just found out it doesn’t so I need to order it.  Oh.  Yes I understand it is close to Christmas, but you see…… yes… yes….. I know orders have closed but if you have them in stock can I buy the elevation kit and accessories and get you to courier them to me? I will have to pick it up if you deign to sell me one if you have it? Can’t you send it up?  I won’t be able to drive a 4 or more fucking hour round trip with petrol at $1.49 a litre when it would be cheaper and easier for me for you to mail it  to get there during your opening hours.   Oh, OK you want my phone number and will get back to me OK.’

Click.

I am such a freaking pussy.

Waiting near the phone.  Hovering over the phone.  Standing staring at the phone.  The cordless phone that I could actually pick up and walk around with.

No they didn’t call.

Mario-porn-star comes home.  Ask him to call.

They have no record of my call.

Fuck.

Will have to try again on Monday.

Oh please God, Allah, Goddess, my wonderful internets, please please make sure that all the bits I need are here in time for Christmas.

I will be good.  I won’t swear for like 15 minutes or something.  Or how about I won’t buy any new shoes for the rest of the YEAR!

Just please make this happen for my little guy.  It will be the ultimate.

Oh and can you help me find this stupid freaking thing:

images.jpeg  It is called Hyper Dash and all the stores are sold out.

It is ALL he wants for Christmas.  He has never asked Santa for anything before.  So if you could organise for it to fall in my lap I would, like, be rool happy and shit.

Ta.  Smootches.

Oh and P.S.  make the biatch who fucked this up for me get a huge zit on her arse forcing her to wear loose pants and stand all day.  Then have it burst painfully.  That would be awesome.

Oh and perhaps give me some balls for Christmas.  Looks like I could use ’em.

Screaming children, frazzled parents, slow walking pensioners with bags full of change, punch ups in the carpark…..

Yes, the Christmas spirit is alive and well at my local shopping centre (mall).

Today I started my Christmas shopping. Usually I am almost finished by now. But nooo this year I am totally disorganised.

So I dragged my sorry arse filled with the joy of Christmas shopping I made my way to the home of off key Christmas musak. Seems everyone else in a 100 kilometre radius had the same idea.

Hence the car park punch ups. No I wasn’t involved. I was just standing around enjoying the show shouting ‘Kick him in the balls!’, ‘It was totally your park girl, pull her hair till her scalp bleeds’ with all the others.

City girl in me never died, so I walk fast. I shop fast. Old lady with the walking frame get the fuck outta my way cause I am on a mission.

Today’s mission was getting the rest of the paraphernalia for the outside decorating and the wrapping paper, cellophane, ribbon, cards and shit.  Remember this, it is important.

First port of call was the local coffee place. Make my order, stand in the required possie and wait. For 15 freaking minutes! Every bastard had the same idea as me. But when I got my extra large (I get them to make it in a milkshake cup) double latte with an extra shot, I kissed it and took off in my usual 500 miles an hour fashion.

Weaving through the prams, toddlers, aforementioned old people, disembodied heads on top of laden trolleys and strategically placed beggars people selling raffle tickets, I spied some really cute 3/4 pants. Hmmm, I have time. Lets try them on.

Yeah, it didn’t go well. Good thing I didn’t buy that holiday decorated icepick I saw earlier or I would have stabbed myself repeatedly in the eye to reduce the pain of seeing myself in the 3 way mirror.

Into the discount shop to find some cute but cheap frugal cards for the kids to give to their friends. Run into one of the feral mums from school. Am civil but talk quick and get the hell out of there. Cardless.

After an hour my feet are killing me.  These shoes are gorgeous, but not made for speed shopping.

I carry my bags full of Santas (got a thing for Santa *snigger*), lights and 2 bucks a packet candy canes out to the carpark.  Flipping the bird at the guy who nearly runs me down in the race to get another park.

I get home, unpack my purchases.

Shit.

Now I need to go and get the wrapping paper, cellophane, ribbon, cards and shit.

****************

I am going to come clean.  I wrote this last week.  Tonight I wrote a long and very personal post in response to some of the lovely supportive emails I received after yesterdays post.  But I guess I am not ready to share it right now.  I will, in time.  But in the meantime…….  

Thankyou, my internets.  You are all my biatches. 

Need I say more?

Party time at the Magneto Bold House!

Surely not!