Every year I start out the holidays with the same motto: I will enjoy the holidays. I will not stress out. I will not give any gifts.
I mean, aren’t we just buying everyone a bunch of plastic crap they don’t really want? (Take that money you save, and buy yourself something amazing.)
My motto always works for me until around Dec. 13 (missing all the important prep time). Then I freak out and realize I can’t go through with it.
OK, I tell myself, I will just buy the minimum amount of gifts.
I make a list. Thirty presents. WHAT!! Who are these people? My family disowned me after my last , and I only have three friends, and I’m not even getting them anything.
My list is only people that I feel obligated to buy for — the neighbors, my kid’s teacher, the lonely lady down the street who always brings me scary old toys for the kids — and not the people in my life that really mean something to me. That doesn’t seem right. So I add all the people I care about.
Thankfully, at least, I don’t have to buy presents for my own kids, because Santa handles that. (Although, he has forgotten our house every year for the last four years. I have tried calling his customer service number (1-800-Verizon) to figure out why my kids are on the naughty list, but I keep getting transferred and then put on hold. After 90 minutes of this I always give up. If he doesn’t come through this year, I’m afraid I might have to buy the gifts myself and just pretend they're from Santa.)
So I am back to frantically making a million gifts. I start by baking everyone cookies. Are these cookies made with love? No. They are made with hatred and fury. Can you taste it?
I’ll tell you one thing: this stress is not worth it. For sure I am not going to give any gifts next year. I need to join a cult that doesn’t believe in presents (unless they are lavishly rained down upon me ... Chrisianity). Until then, I am pacifying myself with wine and rage-filled cookies.
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