Friday night was a lazy night for us here in Deutschland. We spent most of the night watching TV, eating pot pie (from the Ultimate Pot Pie baking competition we held earlier this week) and playing on different laptops. I was bored and when I’m bored, I usually look around for new sites or blogs to fall in love with and add to the old blogroll. Lucky me, in searching “funniest blogs,” I found two badass gals online that are HYSTERICAL. True story, I typically think I am the funniest person on earth and so it takes a lot of effort to admit the following:
I.am.not.the.funniest.person.on.earth.I.am.not.the.funniest.person.on.earth. (tear shed, chin up, chin up)
So. I will be third funniest. I am voluntarily placing Becky and Jenny above me. They win. For now. And so let’s meet them, as they are my segway into this bigger, more sappy blog I planned out yesterday in my head. (**NOTE: Just because I introduce you to them does NOT mean you can stop reading my daily nonsense. I will not appreciate that shit. BUT, you’re welcome anyway.)
First, meet Becky and her blog, Mommy Wants Vodka. She loves the word fuck maybe even more than I do and I laughed reading her “About Aunt Becky” and her “100 things” so hard that I may or may not have slightly pissed myself while crying while exclaiming to really no one, “Oh my goooooooooooood, why is this girl so funny?????” Then I commented on her page that I had a girl crush on her, but not a lesbo crush, suggested we drink vodka together and basically admitted I wanted to be her online friend which is just fucking creepy in general. So, check, check, check her out. http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/becky-sherrick-harks/100-things-about-becky-sherrick-harks
) Now meet Jenny, who owns the very funny and fancy site, The Bloggess. She made me spit out ginger ale onto my hoodie the other night and I wasn’t even pissed about the mess, because she is that.FUNNY. http://thebloggess.com
But then Jenny made me cry. Which isn’t really typical or something I take lightly, but instead of wanting to choke her for making me cry, I just cried a little and then did what she asked.
If you check out her latest blog, you will see that she offered a few online gift certs up to anyone that was having a tough time providing for their family for Christmas this year. Apparently the response she received was a bit overwhelming and so, because she can’t gift card the world, she opened it up publicly. She has asked that anyone that can buy a $30 gift card this year (Target has great e-gift cards at http://www.target.com/e-GiftCards/b?ie=UTF8&node=123282901) for someone less fortune DO SO and she will even make it easier on you. You comment on her page (or email her at email@example.com) and she will match you up with someone who needs your help. You meet them, they meet you and viola!, you are matched for Christmas giving. You buy a e-gift card and email it to them and they have the chance to have a wee bit brighter of a Christmas morning. You give them a chance to believe in something bigger this Christmas and I think that is badass.
And so yes, I’m going to get all Christmas emotional on everyone. So here it is from the loud-mouthed, narcissistic, spoiled, sociopath in Germany. (I picked my very best qualities to highlight the importance of the following)
When I was in 5th grade, we had our first Christmas in our new house in the country. We also had the first and only Christmas where I think I ruined it by acting like a complete asshole. I think of this story every year around the holidays and have never brought it up–not to my parents and not even to my sister, because part of me hopes that they don’t remember and part of me has tried for awhile to forget myself. The other part of me just wants to go back in time and kick my own ass.
Christmas morning of 1990, when I was 11, we all woke up with the level of excitement of previous years, dashing into the living room, ready to rip apart the carefully wrapped presents, especially the ones with the sideways scrawl of Santa on them, which obviously were NOT from my parents, because the writing was so clearly not theirs. (you know the one I’m talking about—the left-handed, crooked Santa signature….what a classic) Now this year I didn’t even believe in Santa anyway. I just wanted my presents, all of them. NOW. So there we were, ripping away, the five of us, with our parents watching on, more than happy just to sit back, drink coffee and watch our faces light up and our shrieks grow louder and louder with each new gift lifted proudly above our heads, like we were a bunch of prize-winning fighters, showing off our gleaming title belts.
One by one, the presents disappeared from under the tree. To be honest, I don’t even remember what I got that year. I do know that my stocking was full and my list was probably 98% purchased, and I say 98% because I am positive something must have been missing because I did the following after opening what seemed to be my very last gift.
“That’s IT? We’re done??? There are no.more.GIFTS???” Loudly. For all of my family to hear. Maybe I half expected my siblings to jump up and down with me, slamming their midget fists up and down by their sides, helping me with my spoiled, ungrateful pity parade, on the very worst morning of all to pull such a bullshit stunt.
They didn’t join me and the room was just silent and I knew how awful and bratty and dirty, foul filthy mouthed I was. But what I didn’t know, until I looked up, was that I had just done the worst thing a kid could do. It was clear when I looked over at my parents. My dad didn’t even really look at me and my mom’s eyes had already filled up with tears. I don’t even remember if they responded. I think they may have just shaken their heads, turned to my happy and deserving of love siblings, and carried on with Christmas, disappointed that one of their kids was a bad, bad, wretched little twit that deserved to have her shit taken down to the church and given to people who actually deserved it. 100% of the population deserved those gifts more than I did. I had broken my parents’ hearts. On Christmas Day, no less. I was a bad seed.
And what’s funny is that for the past 20 years, I really have felt awful about this little unfortunate, tourettes like incident I pulled on my very loving and generous parents. Every year I have thought about it, and hopefully since I just admitted I’m a long-time, bratty jerk, we can move on and I can stopped tearing up every year about breaking my parents’ hearts (for this reason. Let’s be honest, I’ve done it a million times since). And the kicker? We’re not even all ruin your life with guilt Catholics. I am doing this to myself. So fucking weird. Anyway, so now that you’ve taken a trip with me down Asshole Lane, here’s the point.
It breaks MY heart when I read emails and stories from people who have had terrible luck this year, this decade, this lifetime. People who are only asking for a $30 gift cert so that they can provide ONE gift, just one, for their child for Christmas so that they get to see a face light up next Saturday morning. People who ask for things like a winter jacket or a pair of boots for their child, when I can see my jacket rack from where I write, and I know that I hate at least 2 of the jackets I own. It makes me sick that some people will wake up and carry on like every other day, or maybe their worst day, where they give the food they have to their kids, if they even have any, while I plan out some elaborate ham and quiche fat kid buffet to celebrate a holiday for a person I don’t even believe in. It bothers me that I sit around blogging about popcorn tins and snowflakes and the magic of gluhwein, when to some people, Christmas magic would mean that their heat gets turned back on or that when they wake up on Christmas, their fridge will be full, or they won’t be sick, or they might just get that job they’ve been praying for this year.
And so sometimes Christmas should be about a healthy bitch slap to the face, a holiday wake-up call, if you will. Maybe if you’re like me, you need to be reminded that you don’t really need that $100 perfume or $200 pair of fancy, furry boots. You just need a refresher in a simple and valuable life lesson about being selfless. And though it’s pretty cliché to go through this every December, it’s probably better than nothing.
So. I signed up for two families and I hope you will do the same, or something similar this year. I promise, if you do, you will instantly remember what Christmas is supposed to be about and you will be happy that you made a difference in someone’s life. And if you don’t, you will most likely rot in hell. Or maybe not. Just thought that might help give you that extra push. 🙂
Happy, happy six (holy shit, only SIX) days til Christmas from me and my slowly melting, getting bigger by the day, heart.