My Blognanomous

This is a post that I wrote that was going to be posted on someone else's blog called 'blognonymous.' It was intended to be a way to say something that you wanted to get off your chest without anyone knowing it was you that said it. 

Fun.

Well, for some reason, the woman hosting my blog decided to take my post down. I don't know why and I'm going to pretend that I don't care. (Except that I totally do) And I'm going to not pass any kind of judgment about her maybe not being comfortable with 'gays' because, for the record, I love my gay uncle. I think everyone should have one. Or, maybe she wasn't comfortable with my flippant references to alcohol being used to soothe ones nerves. OR, maybe she's a spy sent by my mother and was upset with my disregard toward my family. 

Or maybe she was just jealous that my hilarious post was racking up a ton of comments. 

Who knows. I'm just speculating here.

For the record, most of this is partially true and very much tongue-in-cheek and supposed to make you laugh. 

Anyway, without further ado, here is MY [now not so] anonymous post:

Christmas, that time of year to bake until your fingers bleed. To feign interest in yet another pair of velour sweatpants with writing on the ass. And to gather round your family and try not to choke them.

I love the holiday season. Just. Love. It!

Are you catching the sarcasm?

I hope so, because I’m spreading it on pretty thick.

I guess I should explain. You probably don’t know me. You probably don’t know my family. Let me warn you, it could get ugly.

I haven’t spoken to my mother in four years. Four years to the day, this Christmas.

It’s been a great four years.

Usually Christmas takes place at my Grandparents. It has every year that I can remember. Until this year, when my grandmother cancelled because the entire family is fighting.

There’s me who’s not speaking to my mom. My two sisters (also not speaking to my mom). There’s my gay uncle who’s not speaking to my (probably) gay aunt and also not speaking to my mom. (Catch a theme here with my mom? She’s definitely the problem child in all of this.) He’s also not talking to my other sister (there’s some kind of allegation of a gay slur that my sister vehemently denies. And by ‘vehemently denies’ I mean she claims she never said it with a shrug of her tattooed shoulder.) My other uncle doesn’t really have a problem with anyone, but his girlfriend doesn’t like my littlest sister. My grandmother ‘refuses’ to get into the middle of all of this, despite the fact that it was her and my grandfather giving their inheritance early that caused all of this.

Still following? Hope so.

SO, this year Christmas was just us ­– Me. My husband Brad. And the pups.

Oh yeah, and my sister who’s living with us. And his mom who used to live with us.

Can somebody pass the gluten-free vodka?

Deep down, I love Christmas. Love it. I want to wrap it up in a big box and mail it to myself. Except that would be strange. And impossible.

Why are you staring at me?

But I never get to fully enjoy the holidays. Brad is the Grinch to my Clark Griswold. I love decorations but he hates them. As a compromise I put up a tree and a wreath. And, I managed to force feed him some cider and pie. He doesn’t know what he’s up against.

Then, when running the fab gift for my 7-year old nephew by his mom, I was told that in fact, he would probably not like the Buzz Lightyear turbo pack that I bought, and could I return it for ‘Black Ops Call of Duty.’ (I kid you not.)

With all of that in mind, the best day of my vacation was December 26^th, when I woke up and it was all over. The saddest part is that come November of next year I will attempt to punish myself all over again, with 11 months between now and then to forget this. So could someone send me the post to remind myself to either get some Xanax or sleep the month of Decemeber?

Thanks.