The entry that smells of humbugs.
2002-12-12 at 8:10 a.m.

 

Yep, that's right, lads and lasses. I hate Christmas. I am the most full-of-humbug person you can find at this time of year. Don't get me wrong, I *love* the idea of buying my favourite people presents to make them happy. What I don't however love is the goddamned stress having my family, Mr Me and Mr Me's kids all wanting to do different things on different days.

For example this year. Mr Me has adamantly stated that he doesn't want to leave his house on Christmas day. Well ok. This is going to make for a pain in the ass with my parents, because tradition dictates we have a family Christmas at the family home. However, because my mum is such a splendiferous woman my family will come and see me at home this year and not rub my nose in the fact. Gosh, you think, it's all sorted. Well it's not. Because when I said to Mr Me yesterday that my family (you know, family, it's an important thing to me) want to come over Christmas day he was like 'Yubbut, I don't want them to stay too long'. Excuuuuse me? My parents are planning on rearranging their life for you. Oh and so's my sister, who loves her Christmas at home. And you tell me you don't want them here too long? Huh? Any chance of asking the rest of us what we want? Me, for example? Sometimes I think I am marrying the most amazingly selfish, selfish pig in the world. If there were a land of selfishness then he would be king. This conversation happened last night and I'm still pissy about it today. Believe me, it takes something to hold my level of interest for that long.

Last year, we went to my parents. He drunk the bottle of whiskey my sister brought him and at 1am announced he was walking home. 10 miles. In the freezing cold. Hardly able to stand. Off he goes. I let my parents know and proceed to follow him, because I just know this is all going to go horribly wrong. It takes him an hour to go 3/4 mile, then he falls over, and can't get back up again. So I call my parents and get them to come and pick us up. All the way back home in the car he lambastes me and them for giving him a lift, because he doesn't need them. And then we get him home and up the steps. He falls over in our hall. And proceeds to shout at me. Then falls asleep. God. Even a year later that still upsets me. Christmas is always going to be the anniversary of that crap.

Still I got my own back on New Years Eve. He made me go to a party that I had no desire to be at. So I got drunk, behaved perfectly well, but as we were walking home I sat down on a frosted bench and declared that I was staying there to watch the sun come up. At least the frenzied attempts to get me up were amusing. I'm a quality bitch.

'No. Don't want to go home. Didn't want to go to the party. M'staying here to watch the sunrise. Y'go home.' See? I always knew the seven-year-old in me would come in handy.

I think we're a fine pair.

Now don't get it wrong. He mostly gets that upset because he generally doesn't get to see his kids on Christmas day. I understand that this is the suckiest thing of suckiest things. But that's their issue. Not my parents' issue. All my mum is doing is wanting the same thing. Just because she can have it is no reason to go all nuclear on us.

Still, rant over.

I'm getting a DVD player from my parents for Christmas. We like *that* part of Christmas.