Here’s further evidence that I’m 80.

Last night, while putting my daughter in the bath, I got a sharp pain in my right boob. I felt the spot where the pain was coming from and discovered a smallish bump deep underneath my skin. It’s a tumor, I thought. My life flashed before my eyes and I became very depressed because I won’t live to see my daughter grow up.

Today, my entire right boob hurts, but mostly in a place not even close to the place that hurt last night. This means that the tumor grew over night and spread throughout my entire body. It couldn’t possibly be because I keep pressing it to see if the bump is still in there (which it isn’t).

It couldn’t be the first month on a new birth control pill that is wreaking havoc on every other aspect of my being from out of control crying jags to monumental weight gain.

Nay, nay.

I’m dying.

Remember me fondly…

It’s Saturday night.

After feasting on a dinner of soup and bread, I’m enjoying a nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and watching British Antiques Roadshow on PBS.

I’ll likely be in bed and off to dreamland by 8:30.

It’s official.

I’m 80.

…how fucked up are your bran-ches?

Call us tree huggers, but every year we purposely choose some poor mutant tree that would otherwise find itself alone in the lot on Christmas Eve. We search for the most wretched looking thing we can find, bring it home and hang elegant blue, silver, and lavender glass ornaments on it. This year was no exception and we had every intention of giving it a good home. But…well…

Let’s start with the Christmas gifts sitting under it. When it comes to gift wrapping, I have no patience or pride in workwomanship. I used to try to make the gifts look nice, but they always come out looking like I wrapped them with my feet. I’ve given up. It’s what’s under the paper that matters, right? Of course it is.

If my substandard wrapping isn’t enough, the dog has been nosing through the gifts and partially unwrapping them. The cat never did seek help for his ribbon fetish, so anything in a bag with ribbon handles has either had them totally chewed off or munched full of little kitty teeth holes and is stiff from his frothy saliva/stomach bile. “Merry Christmas, here’s your spitty bag.”

My daughter has been hanging random things she finds around the house on it. There’s a pair of kid’s sunglasses, a rubber band, a piece of gimp with a single wooden bead on it, a square of toilet paper (unused of course), gold and silver bangle bracelets, a shoelace with 2 pieces of dried ziti dangling from it, an empty container of Italian Seasoning, Mrs. Potato Head’s purse, and an assortment of paper Hello Kitty ornaments she got out of a book my sister-in-law gave her.

In what is most certainly a suicide attempt, it stopped drinking sometime last week and now it’s so dried out that if you even think about looking at it, the needles rain down upon the mutant gifts. When Santa comes tonight, he’ll probably shriek in horror and be all ass and elbow right back up that chimney. I can’t say I blame him.

Merry Christmas everyone!

“It’s going to be the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby danced with Danny fuckin’ Kay!” –Clark W. Griswold, Christmas Vacation

Okay. So we survived Thanksgiving. Christmas is only a month away and it’s on, baby. The madness has begun. In celebration of the holiday shopping season, I have used the alphabet to help me compose a list of things that make me hate everyone. (I’m borrowing the alphabet idea from other blogs I’ve seen. I cannot claim it as my own brilliant idea.)

A: Assholes. They’re everywhere. They’re at Target in their pajamas and slippers, they’re running down pedestrians in their giant pig SUVs, they’re parking mini-vans full of children on either side of my car so that I cannot see to get out, and they’re standing in line in front of me.

B: Black Friday: Getting up at 2am with a wine hangover that dare not speak its name in order to go out in the dark, scrape ice off the car, and drive to the mall to save 39 cents on a pair of long johns. Whydowedothis? The sale lasts allfuckingday!

C: Clearance aisle. Nothing in it.

D: Driving in mall traffic makes my middle finger hurt.

E: Early Bird Shopper. This is the smug jackass who has all of her shopping finished before Halloween. Hate. Her. There’s nothing wrong with having done this, it’s just that she feels the need to tell everyone about it. If this is you, keep it to yourself and I won’t have to choke you. That’s all I’m saying. (btw, I say” her” because I have yet to meet a man who doesn’t wait until December 24th at approximately 8pm to begin thinking about going out to do a little shopping. If you have seen such a creature, grab onto him and never let go.)

F: Fuck this. I’m converting to Wicca. They give eachother little sticks and shit they find in out the yard.

G: Getting a table at any restaurant within a ten mile radius of a shopping mecca in under 2 hours, 45 minutes.

H: Hate everyone with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns.

I: Indecision. Should I buy Cousin Albert a shower radio, a travel grooming kit, or a 90 inch flat screen TV?

J: Jackets, hats, mittens, scarves, purse, Ernie doll, snack, sippy cup, sale flyer, and all the other stuff we leave in a trail throughout the store like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs.

K: Kilometers. The car is parked 50 kilometers from the mall entrance.

L: Ladies room. Bringing a toddler to visit the potty. I’m carrying all items listed above in letter J as well as holding the very tiny hand of an uncooperative and squirming little person who is grabbing her crotch and insisting “the pee pee is going to come out Mommy!” I karate kick the stall door open and shimmy through it, managing not to touch anything. While keeping all items off the floor, I line the toilet seat with paper, scoot down tiny little jeans and panties, and hoist all 27 squirmy lbs of her onto the seat. Thank God we made it in time! However, I used the last scrap of toilet paper to cover the seat. There is no more. I introduce my daughter to the concept of the drip dry, roundhouse kick the door again and we move on. I don’t bother to wash her hands. She’s already licked the handle on the shopping cart.

M: Muzak. Who writes and performs this shit and why hasn’t anyone stopped them?

N: Noel?

O: Octogenarian Santa Clause. Paying $35.00 for a grainy 4×6 of my terrified kid sitting on the lap of some second rate elderly volunteer from the senior center. I can see the fear in Santa’s eyes as the fat kid’s turn draws near…will the osteoporosis finally catch up with him?

P: Perfect gift. A most elusive creature that doesn’t show itself until AFTER you’ve already settled for and purchased something else.

Q: Queer Christmas theme sweaters.

R: Really just can’t come up with anything for this one…maybe later.

S: Security guards at the mall stopping me because my kid ganked a Snow White doll at the Disney store when I wasn’t looking. “Excuse me Maam? Were you intending to pay for that item?” “What are you asking me for? She took it!”

T: Tickle Me Elmo and all subsequent variations of the same bizarre mechanical monster. What brings people out at 4am in the darkness and freezing cold just to stand in line and possibly get their asses kicked in an effort to obtain such a gift?

U: Uzi. Standing in line while a fantasy is forming in my head involving an Uzi and a blaze of glory…

V: Very tempted to buy shit for myself. One for me, one for you…

W: What am I doing writing this? I should be out shopping!

X: Xanax. Will give head for a Xanax.

Y: Yippeee!! Only one letter left to go!

Z: Zero. Number appearing at the end of my bank statement.