I am so freaking glad that the holidays are over.
I’m glad that Christmas is over because now I can return to eating with guilt and shame as opposed to wild abandon. Guilt and shame eating at least keeps me from feeling like I’ve got lard coming out of my pores, and occasionally my normal diet allows me to poop, unlike a diet that is made up of foods that are high in fat and trigrosserides. Eating during the holidays gives me nothing but gas and constipation, even though I come by it most deliciously. I ate so much of my mother-in-law’s broccoli salad that I gave myself a wicked headache. I had to wait almost 20 minutes before I could resume stuffing my face full of mayo, raisins and sunflower seeds (with a little broccoli). It was a long 20 minutes.
So this morning I threw out all the remaining cookies and candy and put all the naughty foods that we got as gifts up on a high shelf where only the nimblest of piggies will get them (me, with a stick).
For dinner we’re having shake and bake. I’ll mash cauliflower with Becel instead of potatoes with cream and cheese. And I’ll have a cup of tea for afters instead of an entire layer of Pot of Gold.
I like getting back into our regularly scheduled program, as much as I enjoy the festivities and gluttony of the holidays. I thrive under routine, and as much as I lack them, I love boundaries.
I know many of you out there share my sentiments. In Canada, December 26th is known as Boxing Day. In my house it is known as “Get This Damned Tree Out Of My Living Room Day”. Never before in Christmases past have I ever felt so strong a desire to flush Christmas away, both in terms of my digestive system and my decor .
Once there are no presents under the tree, to me, the tree serves no purpose other than to remind you that once again, you did NOT get the Easy Bake Oven. There’s a scum on the tree water that you don’t know what the hell it is. It’s a drunken whore at last call, makeup smeared, dress akimbo, and no one paying attention. Even the cat is no longer interested.
This year we experimented with getting a scotch pine. My family always had fir or spruce trees. We never, ever had a scotch pine, so I thought I’d see what all the fuss wasn’t about.
Well, I can tell you, never again!
The scotch pine is the ouchiest of Christmas trees. It’s long needles are as sharp as... well, long needles. And you can’t even brush up against the thing without feeling like you’ve been swatted with a hairbrush made of hypodermics. Decorating the thing was a nightmare. I got a rash all over my arms. Even it’s sap must be nasty.
And you can’t even decorate the thing properly. You don’t hang decorations from the scotch pine, so much as you lay decorations across it’s abnormally bushy and poisonous branches. So you end up with a tree that looks you basically stood 3 feet away and threw ornaments at it, hoping they’d just stick. This is what you have to do at any rate, just to keep from having your skin shredded by it’s stupid protective porcupine body.
I really hate the scotch pine and I’m glad it’s on the curb. Alone. Naked. Comeuppance is a bitch, isn’t it, Scotchie?