Happy Humbug.

Twas 17 days before Christmas. The tree lights were twinkling and the girls were dumping ornaments onto the branches in big, non-decorous clumps. We sipped our Allegro Organic Mayan Spice 73 Drinking Chocolate and the Christmas tunes pumped through the speakers via iTunes. (My carefully cultivated Christmas mix is now up to over 9 hours of play time. Thankyouverymuch.) And the hubby ran back and forth to the potty with near-clockwork-precision. Pooping in time with The Waitress’ Christmas Wrapping and Pottery Barn (A Cool Christmas). [insert needle-scratch.]

Yes. Reality impinges. There I sat, on the couch, still in my PJs. Not having showered since — er — SUNDAY. The hubby has poop running down his leg. And I can’t seem to muster the energy to hang even one effin ornament. Holly-jolly-holy-moly.

All I can say is: WE’RE TRYING. SO. I may not make it to Sturtz and Copeland for the prerequisite 20-feet of genuine evergreen garland made of fraser fir, blue-berried juniper and incensed cedar. It’s DECEMBER 8th and I still haven’t bought a single item for the advent calendar (the girls have taken to putting their own random things in the pockets). The Elf on the Shelf has been officially tainted because the girls pulled him from the box themselves. And I just went along, “Yep. You’re probably right. If you touch him, he loses his magic. That’s what it says.” Mother-of-the-Year yet again. But I’m thinking self-preservation because who SERIOUSLY has the TIME and the MEMORY to move that damned thing around EVERY SINGLE STINKIN’ NIGHT FOR 17+ SOLID DAYS?!

Why do the holidays have to be so HARD? When did celebrating PEACE ON EARTH become a race to the finish? That we get so busy running to recitals, concerts, parades, parties, drop-ins and plays that we don’t have time to just sit and stare at the $50 tree we just hauled home on the roof of our car from Whole Foods? (The LED lights alone added at least another $50 to that total.)

I used to stare —open-mouthed— at my Papa when he’d mumble, “Bah. Humbug.” Thinking: “How can you possibly be ANYTHING BUT EXCITED about CHRISTMAS, for pete’s sake?!” But now that I’ve reached a year where sugarplums seem to be replaced by hard liquor and magic highjacked by too many days in the same smelly pajamas. Well. I think I’m starting to get it.

Yes, yes, this year may have sucked a bit of the life out of me. It may have officially turned me into that curmudgeon that’s been threatening to come out for years. But, give me a break already. I DID buy a LIVE tree, did I not? Even though the ease and eco-friendliness of that Target, pre-LED-lit 100% artificial Virginia pine held a certain thrall. There’s some hope in THAT.

I know. I DID sit there at Jeff Jewell’s memorial on Monday night. Tears streaming down my face (along with snot once the real sobs kicked in). Listening to story upon story about his joy of life. His wide-open embrace of every minute aspect of LIVING. It made me want to learn the names of each person I meet and actually remember them the next time I see them at Southern Sun. It made me toy with the idea of getting up and taking a shower. Or, better yet, just GETTING UP.

I watched the slide show of his Rocky Mountain High with his chest emblazoned with hundreds of various race bibs. His tight little ass glued to bike seat upon bike seat for the many thousands of miles he rode through the mountains. His face fierce with concentration as he scaled yet another peak on his skate skis. (Some of this WHILE he was undergoing rigorous chemo and the after-effects of multiple brain surgeries.) And, yes, I’ll admit to training for that half-marathon this past spring with him as the inspiration. “You really need to MOVE YOUR ASS. JJ did this with a LEMON-SIZED TUMOR IN HIS SKULL.”

But what now? I’m all fought out. Christmas spirit draining out of me like the poop draining out of the hubby’s ass every five seconds. (I warned you: HOT MESS.)

I’ll get it back. I’m sure to. Hell, I might even get up and walk outside for a sec. Channel me some JJ and maybe even make it to the end of the street.

For now, we celebrate the end of that damnable radiation. Wait, with baited breath, for the hubby’s rectum to shrink back to it’s un-ulcerated/passable-shit size. (I did read that putting things into your rectum can cause this same condition. Just sayin’.)

We also celebrate having a break from CANCER. With the exception of one appointment on the 21st with Dr. J, we are FREE from happy-cancer-thoughts until January (when chemo starts back). So, for that, I may walk to the kitchen for another doughnut.

Instead: kudos and BIG BOOBIE STRENGTH to AG, happy official potty-pooping to KD, love, love, love/strength/props to SJ, <3 to RR and maybe I’ll bake some crescents for the love and memory of Mima (and so the girls don’t give up on me completely).

2011? Can you please hurry? Give-a-bitch-a-break? Eh? (The Veuve Clicquot just arrived on the Liquor Mart truck. Don’t make me get it out...)

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Father Christmas. The Kinks. Father Christmas, give us some money. We’ll beat you up if you make us annoyed.