Hello dearies,
I want to wish you all the merriest of—
You know what. I can’t. I just can’t. I’m so sick of this sunshine and candy canes b.s. The holidays are hard. Everyone knows that they are hard. I’m going pour myself another glass of Fireball eggnog and get a few things off of my apron wearing chest.
First of all, women will sometimes ask me, “How do you do it? I can’t even get my husband to take out the trash? How do you get that jolly fat man off of his jolly fat butt and to stay motivated enough for building toys and checking his list?”
My husband works one night a year. Who do you think does everything else the other 364 days? I check the list. I bake cookies. I compromise contracts with the head of the elf union (and that Sprinkle-Toes is a shrewd negotiator). You want to trade lives and be constantly depicted as frumpy little old lady in a Thanksgiving parade, be my guest!
This brings me to my next complaint. You know I’m actually quite healthy and thin, especially for my age. It’s not easy to keep this figure in the third century of your life, but I manage it. But no, they always get these chubby, grandmother types to play me in movies. I don’t even own a single ruffled nightcap or holiday themed dress. I have one green dress which I wear on Christmas Eve and that is it. If I wore velvet and holly all the year round, it would like never being able to take off your work clothes. My husband does wear his red suit a lot, but I’ll let you in on a secret. Those are actually his pajamas.
Here is my true message of holiday cheer. Be cheerful when all of the madness is done. Don’t be asshats. Remember, this time of year is hard for everyone, even those of us who prep for it all year long.
Yours,
Mrs. Claus