Christmas as a child. Can you see the spirit in my eyes?

I hail from dysfunction and chaos so it’s no surprise that I am not fond of Christmas, but much like attending PTO meetings, flossing my teeth and vacuuming, I participate in Christmas with a feigned zeal.

I attribute a smidgen of my holiday disdain to my aforementioned desire to be Jewish, or perhaps it’s because I don’t like wrapping, fine cheese or Karen Carpenter. Interestingly, unlike much else in my life, I follow a strict set of rules for Christmas, here goes:

Attending an Ugly Sweater Party Never Ends Prettily:Is the Ugly Sweater Party phenom a cruel joke played on short women with paranoid tendencies and self-esteem issues? Is it giving you as much anxiety as it gives me? Really, all I’ve got are my beautiful clothes and to rob me of that comfort is like asking me to arrive completely bare-faced. I attended one of these cruel parties and to compensate for the ugliness of my sweater, I wore the highest stripper heels Kohl’s bucks can purchase. Did you know that an Ugly Sweater Party includes a parade so that judges may crown a winner to the ugliest sweater wearer? Spoiler alert: The prize will always go to the hot girl with the white cashmere sweater that has poked holes through that sweater from which to hang ornaments. Ugh, don’t invite me, my psychiatrist told me not to go.

Master of Inappropriate Gift-Giving: I want to give every kid a present their parents are going to dislike, it’s part of my schtick. The enjoyment I receive after buying non-parent approved gifts is unimaginable to most adults. Monster High dolls for toddlers? Perfect. Fake dog excrement and guns for seven-year old boys, I’ll buy four. The more uptight the parents, the more generous I feel.

Christmas Cards for All!: I’m serious about Christmas cards. Every year, I write a personal message in every card that I send. This year I’ve been so busy watching Bravo’s reality shows that I skipped the personal message. I appreciate it when families send a letter inserted into each card, and here’s my letter to friends and family:

Dear Buffy,

 Greetings from Rhode Island, the smallest state in the U.S., and the smallest source of employment and competent doctors!

We’re all just getting by here in little Rhody. The kids are wonderful!  Although none play sports, we’re hoping the force the youngest uses to kick his brother is an indication of a future in soccer.

Our dog is still alive, much to my mom’s chagrin.

We hosted a wonderful Thanksgiving that resulted in one emegency room visit, but the turkey sure was moist.

We welcome all your visits this year and especially your presents for Christmas. This year, just to switch things up, send checks endorsed to Botox Cosmetics, it’s something fun we are trying to do at home.

 JOY to you!

I’m a writer with a completion problem. I dream and envision witty, provocative words I want to write and then I am assaulted with a wave of anxiety over actually writing. My mother told me at a young age when I was fond of writing boys disturbing love letters to “never put anything in writing”. She has a point, but like most of her well-meant advice, I ignored it and went on to send dark and tortured love letters to each and every boy with whom I shared saliva. Boys, may I have those letters back to see if they were any good? Just drop the restraining order, really, I have changed.

That’s the beauty of writing: what you absolutely cannot say about your in-laws in person, you may get away with it in a blog. Or maybe not, we’ll see.

Is life a series of verbal social censorship? How dare I talk about how boring most people are when I am talking to those boring people. It’s such a social conundrum and this is my cure.

“You know, you should really start a blog” is a statement that I hear often. It’s most likely because I am a bit of a lunatic, a really well-mannered and nice lunatic, but a lunatic all the same.

So, here’s my first stab at starting my own blog and I intend to set a few ground rules. First, do not call this a “mommy blog.”

Yes, I have kids. I have three cute, fresh and well-dressed children with unusual names, of course. But I’m not going to talk about them much, unless they do something shockingly bad and I will share that because, to me, that’s some funny stuff. I like to boast about my kids’ bad behavior more than their good deeds. I know how boring my lil’ monsters are to you because I am probably sick of hearing about your kids. Can we all just agree that children are precious little wonders spewing words of wisdom and be done with it? It’s just so dull.

Another reason why I do not want to be associated with the  “mommy blog” trend is because nobody wants to hear about my child-rearing tips. That’s because I don’t have many. Some may  call me laissez-faire in my approach to parenting, others may call me certifiably insane. Your pick. Cake for dinner? Sure, but, let’s use the fancy plates.

I will not write about weight, weight gain, who’s fat, who’s thin. I choose this rule not because I am taking the high road, but again, because it bores me. If I read about another bloggist that is attacking “fat shamers” for making fun of how she looks in a bikini, I will lose my last grip on reality.  So here goes: I’m chubby and there’s really no excuse for it. I squeezed out a bunch of kids and never lost all the weight. If you see me at the beach in a bikini, laugh all you want, but first check my stats because I have probably suffered a stroke or a mental breakdown.