There are ways that Christmas is a bitch.
I still have to walk the dog, but I have to make two dozen pumpkin muffins on top of it. Make that three dozen. I have to make another gift basket for Christmas eve and these people like our muffins after dropping in this afternoon and polishing off four or five of them.
I hate having to package each muffin in red cellophane and tying it off with a cheerful green bow. What a fucking waste of plastic, the earth is going down, I'm telling you. But have you ever just dumped the muffins into a basket wrapped in plain foil? They look like shit. They're going to be in a million tiny pieces when the package arrives anyway. I don't know what I'm worried about.
As it is, there are two dozen cookies, or rather the crumbles from two dozen cookies on my counter top as I cook. Don't these people know after seven years of diabetes that I can't eat sugar? Okay, Mike can and Jack shouldn't, but it's killing me, just killing me.
And the smell, that cinnamon smell, is driving me absolutely insane. Who wants to eat salad when that smell is in the air?
Then, there's the post office. Now, we have a great mail man and all the people at the post office are friendly and efficient. Still, that line is just deadly. There's no music, nothing to look at except harried people. There is always one unfortunate child doing pull ups on the counter. I remember the time I stood there with a wiggly, bored toddler on one hip and five heavy packages that needed wheels on them as we shuffled forward. That was nine years ago and watching that mom struggle is still agonizing. You can't help them either. If you even talk to them, they look at you as if you're a stalker wannabe. Hell, I remember looking at interlopers with that same venom.
I blame the perfect-mom issues that our culture harbors in this era. We can't be aggravated. Our perfectly good muffins have to be individually wrapped in pretty cellophane, and we can't look as though a sweaty half an hour waiting in a line with a bored child attached to us is making us crazy. Twenty years ago, the kids would have been playing a puddle in the parking lot or pulling errant stuffing out of a cigarette burn in the back seat of the car.
Thanks for listening, jules
I still have to walk the dog, but I have to make two dozen pumpkin muffins on top of it. Make that three dozen. I have to make another gift basket for Christmas eve and these people like our muffins after dropping in this afternoon and polishing off four or five of them.
I hate having to package each muffin in red cellophane and tying it off with a cheerful green bow. What a fucking waste of plastic, the earth is going down, I'm telling you. But have you ever just dumped the muffins into a basket wrapped in plain foil? They look like shit. They're going to be in a million tiny pieces when the package arrives anyway. I don't know what I'm worried about.
As it is, there are two dozen cookies, or rather the crumbles from two dozen cookies on my counter top as I cook. Don't these people know after seven years of diabetes that I can't eat sugar? Okay, Mike can and Jack shouldn't, but it's killing me, just killing me.
And the smell, that cinnamon smell, is driving me absolutely insane. Who wants to eat salad when that smell is in the air?
Then, there's the post office. Now, we have a great mail man and all the people at the post office are friendly and efficient. Still, that line is just deadly. There's no music, nothing to look at except harried people. There is always one unfortunate child doing pull ups on the counter. I remember the time I stood there with a wiggly, bored toddler on one hip and five heavy packages that needed wheels on them as we shuffled forward. That was nine years ago and watching that mom struggle is still agonizing. You can't help them either. If you even talk to them, they look at you as if you're a stalker wannabe. Hell, I remember looking at interlopers with that same venom.
I blame the perfect-mom issues that our culture harbors in this era. We can't be aggravated. Our perfectly good muffins have to be individually wrapped in pretty cellophane, and we can't look as though a sweaty half an hour waiting in a line with a bored child attached to us is making us crazy. Twenty years ago, the kids would have been playing a puddle in the parking lot or pulling errant stuffing out of a cigarette burn in the back seat of the car.
Thanks for listening, jules
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