christmas lights via paris.
When I'm not sleeping with every European director on the planet and apparently exploiting their elderly genitals and cute little balding heads for financial gain, I'm generally drinking and hating Christmas. It's a cardinal sin amongst mothers. I'm already benched for being both a smoking mother and a mother who still has orgasms; I dread to think what my fate will be now. Escorted onto a flying saucer as it passes through (whilst collecting Celine Dion I expect) or eaten by a multitude of poodles perhaps? Very French. Yes, it melts my heart to watch Vince and Juliette (try to) tear apart presents in a fury of coloured paper and ripped bows but that's usually because I've spent at least eight hours finding said toy and then another eight hours in a panic of inadequacy trying to wrap up the fuckers. I'm just generally inadequate at Christmas. I have friends who actually go to the trouble to make real decorations out of real holly branches and twigs and bits of dried fruit. A lot of gold spray-paint and ta-daa. It's funny really; when I wasn't that French girl with a baby in one arm and another clinging to my leg, I'd always assumed when these domestic gods actually got lives, their fruit-spaying days would be over. More important things to think about. Behold my surprise when I've got two lives besides my own to think about and the only thing I can't get out my head is how sad and pathetic my three-foot short artificial pre-decorated little tree looks. I've stopped taking Juliette to her see her surrogate aunts and uncles. I can't bare to watch her eyes widen in awe and her stubby little finger prod the air in the general direction of a dried fruit basket covered in acrylics.
Vince isn't helping much either. He's found a new, fun-filled game to play called; "fuck with mommy's head by changing your mind on what you want." Lump of coal per-chance? I've taken back three batches, not individual, batches of gifts to various stores which is no easy matter in Paris. I know at least three managers on first-name basis now. One of which, Jean-Luc, suggested a stress management class and gave me the number of a very good therapist. Instead, I got shit-faced in a sleazy bar with a multitude of power rangers' toys and a "few" bottles of wine for company. I'm just so nervous-wreck flavoured this time round. Niether the Polish, carbon-dated, imputant doner #1 of my first child nor the attractive but very stupid doner #2 of my second has bothered to get in contact with me about plans and so far the only solution I can come up with short of beating both of them with a turkey leg is for everyone to come here. Not happy with this solution. Not happy at all.
Next year, we're going out for Christmas.
Vince isn't helping much either. He's found a new, fun-filled game to play called; "fuck with mommy's head by changing your mind on what you want." Lump of coal per-chance? I've taken back three batches, not individual, batches of gifts to various stores which is no easy matter in Paris. I know at least three managers on first-name basis now. One of which, Jean-Luc, suggested a stress management class and gave me the number of a very good therapist. Instead, I got shit-faced in a sleazy bar with a multitude of power rangers' toys and a "few" bottles of wine for company. I'm just so nervous-wreck flavoured this time round. Niether the Polish, carbon-dated, imputant doner #1 of my first child nor the attractive but very stupid doner #2 of my second has bothered to get in contact with me about plans and so far the only solution I can come up with short of beating both of them with a turkey leg is for everyone to come here. Not happy with this solution. Not happy at all.
Next year, we're going out for Christmas.