Twas the blog before Christmas
And all through the condo
Hippo was drooling
And pretty much nothing ryhmes with condo.
The Christmas tree, up
Fucking finally, I sighed
Branches carefully arranged
Ornaments hung with pride.
Small dog, on the sofa snoring
Atop a $300 down comforter
Probably dreaming of Colin Firth
I daren’t disturb her.
The sky outside, gray
The lights in here, bright
Though that fucker in the kitchen,
Yeah, that light ain’t quite right.
See, that thing had been flickering
So last night, I climbed up
Uttered, “What the fuck, light?”
Wondering if for bulbs, I had backup.
But the bulbs, hey they look fine.
Maybe I’m losing my mind.
So I climb back down the ladder
And what do I find?
The fuckers start flickering
YET AGAIN, so I climb back up.
I give the light a shake
And yet another WHAT THE FUCK!?
The flickering, it ceases.
My mind, works towards ease.
The ladder, I fold.
I take a glance at the tree.
The lights on the tree
The entire midsection, they cover
The bed, they have shit.
To which I exclaim, “Motherfucker.”
Through the tree, I dig
This “pre-lit,” six-foot asshole.
“Buy a pre-lit tree! It’s easy!”
My patience, about to unroll.
Tiny lightbulbs rightly fucked with
The entire tree, now detested.
On the floor, I sit
Tree skirt, up my ass.
Feeling the complete poster child
Of both Christmas AND class.
Then, to me comes
The ultimate “fuck it”
I’ve got a string of lights around here somewhere.
THIS TREE WILL SUBMIT.
I forage and probe
I capsize and my hand, cut
Hippopotamus starts barking,
To which I shout, “WHAT?!?!”
And at that very moment,
My head, I do hit.
I’m not going to lie.
I totally said, “Shit.”
When my eyes finally opened
There in the hall closet, so packed
What to mine eyes did appear?
A BOX OF CHRISTMAS LIGHTS.
It’s a fact.
My head ringing in pain,
I reach up to the box.
I grab it like pussy
That is, like pussy you would grab if you were in a consensual, adult relationship and you’d established a safe word that wasn’t “Trump” or you had a cat that was about to walk on a hot stove and you were rescuing your feline love because there are no other circumstances where it’s cool to just grab something by the pussy.
I stretch out the lights,
Through the tree’s torso, they’re wrapped
The plug-end, I take
Because I’m over this crap.
In the wall, the plug’s shoved
AND BEHOLD, LIGHTS ARE A-TWINKLING!
I let out a WAHOOOO!
And then the kitchen lights start blinking.
And for the first time in 52 days,
I contemplate vodka.
And wine, and gin
And possibly punching a llama.
So, I do the only thing
That I truly can do.
I switch off the kitchen light,
And I calmly mutter, “Fuck you.”
As today, when I write this
It’s the next morning, the day before
The reason I put up this tree
Instead of letting it rot in a box one year more.
Beneath it, two presents
Both for Clark Kent.
One from me to him.
The other, from the dogs (and purchased with my consent).
And the lights in the kitchen,
Those bastards still flicker
By my tree is fully lit
So to myself, I give a snicker.
Because lemme tell ya – life’s full of tough shit.
And these lights of it, the least.
I’ve got coffee and climate control —
All I need to tame the beast
That is this holiday
Filled with bastard lights and wrapping paper, so thin.
Seriously — this wrapping paper is crap.
Most of it ended up in the bin
As I tried to wrap Clark’s gift,
Proving yet again, how I fail.
But the best part of this whole tale?
Clark Kent will never know.
Because he isn’t on Facebook,
And my blog, oh…my beau.
He doesn’t really read it.
So to him, I’ll be the rockstar
Who decked out the tree
The top? Missing only a star.
And me, the dorky girl
Who swore up a storm on par
You won’t hear THAT on NPR.
So now, I leave you
To wash back some caffeine
And admire my goddamn Christmas tree
Because this Christmas, I AM THE QUEEN.
And when Clark Kent returns
From his overnight excursion
He’ll walk into a home filled
With only holiday spirit, no diversions.
Just puppies asleep
(on a fucking $300 down comforter)
And his dorky-ass girlfriend
Who only wants for him to kiss her.
And when he asks about her hand
All swaddled in gauze
She’ll just make a pish-posh sound
And say, “Oh, just got a nick trying to be Santa Claus.” <giggle>
Oh, and here’s the fucking Christmas tree:
As I close-up my laptop,
And head to deal (once again) with that damn kitchen light,
I wish a Happy Christmas to you all.
And to all — keep fighting the good fight.