Ah, the Christmas Holidays have puked its flashing lights and red and green unscrupulousness all over the planet again. yay. yaaaaaaaay.
I remember what Christmas was like growing up. Until I wasabout 16 years old, I would skip ahead to December 24th and December 25th in my diary. By each date, regardless how contemporary and flashy the number was (always accustomed to the fancy of a preteen/teen girl who felt they had "things" to write about...), I wrote two little words: Can't Wait. Well, why couldn't I wait? To see my family? To sing Christmas carols? To watch chestnuts roasting over an open fire and then watch them set on fire and set the stockings on fire and watch the chocolate melt through the stockings and make doo doo looking stains on the floor? Nah. Presents, bia. The gift of receiving. O yeah. Greed at it's finest is in the eyes of every toddler, kid, and preteen at that 4:36am awakening to see if some fat guy supposedly brought things for them to enjoy for ten nano seconds and then prepare for the fashion show the first day of returning to school.
Of course, now I'm marrying a man who does not celebrate holidays. He cringes at the sight of my Christmas tree even if it's laying in a busted box in the shed and only tiny fragments of it's flame retarded "needles" stick out of the box, begging to be able to shine at least one month of the year. Busted ornaments lay in Wal-mart bags all around it. I have spent a year throwing stuff on top of it. I planned to clean out the shed and save it once or twice. But, who really cleans out a shed? You do? Liar.
And so we get back to my fave topic. My darling pal of a co-worker who basically radiates excitement every Christmas. By, nasically, I mean the crazy woman comes out of her depression phase of Manic Depressive Disorder and goes right into an orgasmic state of Mania. That's right. I'm talking Christmas sweaters, snowflake turtlenecks, candy cane turtlenecks (o wait, that's me, nevermind on that one), cheesy stockings hanging up with bells dangling off of them, and, o boy! o boy!, treats. Tasty home made bread and home...made... cakes...and co...oo...coooookiiies (blah). Why do I throw up all over my candy cane turtleneck, you ask? Well, first of all, I just OWN the turtleneck. I do not wear it. And for the record, I am wearing a green turtleneck, thankyouverymuch.
So let me tell you a little back story that we all know on this side of the sanity table. This woman does not wash her hands. O boy, no sir. I have seen her go in the bathroom, barely shut the door, and then come out of the stall. She will turn the sink on, stick her hand under the faucet lightly... or sometimes just bypass every step between coming out of the stall and hitting the bathroom door. So there comes a time when co-workers eventually acknowledge this between each other. "Have you seen this?" "Why, yes, I have." "That's absolutely distasteful and irreverent." "I agree. The poor girl could catch a disease from touching her booty and then touching her mouth." "Agreed. We should not eat a thing she cooks with her hands." "Agreed." Ok. Our conversation may not be THAT formal... but for the sake of argument, I am pretty sure you follow where I may be going.
And of course, nose picking is also a familiar site around this place. And the occasional digesting of buried nose treasure is in there as well. You think I'm making this up? Maybe I am. Maybe you should ask someone else. Maybe I'm being so honest here, otherwise, I wouldn't have anything to write about... don't know...
So today, we are brought a fabulous desert of breads that she just felt inspired to make for her choir and, subsequently, her co-workers. yay. yaaaaaaaay.
Look. I know the score. I know what's going on. Girl will stick a trident in us all if we don't act happy and overjoyed at her desire to push off her disease infested, booty smelling bread off on every single one of us. I sit at my desk, breathing hard, nervous... my hands shaking. I get an IM that says, "You don't have to do it." Another that says, "Do it for the greater good, LOL." I feel sweat run down my back even though it's winter and the older and bigger people in the workplace require the air conditioning to be on at ALL times (I type this in a pair of Mechanix gloves with the tips cut off the fingers to prevent frostbite and hypothermia).
I straighten out aforementioned green turtleneck and head to her dandy little Christmas bowl. Wow. There are some big pieces of bread in there. I say, "Mmmmm, bread. I love [this butt tainted] bread. May I have a piece?"
"YES! Have as many as you like!" I blindly take what I imagine to be an Alaskan size piece of bread.
I take a piece and bring it back to my desk. I am breathing heavy, looking at the tiny chocolate chips, imagining them to be droplets of... well... you know, you follow, we are on the same frickin page here.
I bite. I chew. I swallow. I consume. I know if I toss any, I will be shot with a bow and arrow through my stomach. She will then likely force the rest of the bread in at that point. No need to make it worse on anyone. I continue to eat the Christmas "treat."
I finish and dunk the napkin in the trash. I get a plethora of IMs from friend/co-workers with "O. You just ate arsenic." and "What does poo taste like?" Not one of them acknowledging that I just took one for the dang team and saved the whole race of co-workers at this particular building.
A couple hours later, another co-worker waited until Sybil left her desk, and then grabbed about 6 pieces and tossed in a garbage can in a far away place. This way it looks like more people came and ate in her absence. She came back to a near empty bowl and was ecstatic enough to make me want to slap her for being too excited about anything that doesn't involve alcohol or a member of the opposite sex (or same sex, depending on your taste).
I turn around now, and I see that no one has touched the bowl since. I see her face falling, her hopes of new Christmas Friendship Gifts and Happiness and Joy and Gayness completely dashed. If you don't read another blog from me, then I guess you know what has happened to me.
Though, I have a lot to live for. You know, like, Gossip Girl, and Teen Mom, and Chicago Bears, and stuff. I think Im gonna grab another piece of bread.
Merry Christmas to all you survivors out there.
yay. yaaaaaaaay.
