HAPPY HOLIDAYS
What: Happy Holidays
Who: Conversational second person
For: the holidays :3
Notes: This is more written from a girls point of view, so boys don't worry.
Every holiday season we go through the same events. The, somewhat, laborious effort of calling dad and digging for answers to questions about time and places, and needed, or other wise desired food. Then the hunt for the perfect outfit, and then the dreadful wait of having to put on said outfit, that for some reason, as it sits on its hanger with the tags still attached - looks more and more horrific by the second.
November, thankfully, brings the cold of winter and so now it doesn’t matter how much you resemble a fashion disaster in bright turquoise plaid. You’ll be safely covered by that saucy leather jacket, that even though its three seasons old, it still makes you look like Hallie Berry’s Catwoman.
Five pounds? What five pounds?
Black is slimming, and you still look fantastic! Just look how the leather - curves over those hips. Which is good, because as soon as those Thanksgiving dinners are over, those five pounds will look - much better than the current ten sitting around your waist and thighs.
So, we’ll just keep that Catwoman pleather on. It makes the turquoise less - startling.
Onward, to December, but don’t forget Black Friday! The hustle and bustle, shoving, pushing, grabbing, running. It’s just so fun to limp back to your car. This, of course, is excluding the fact that you just lost 300 calories walking in that Catwoman Pleather (because it’s the only warm, good looking coat you own aside from that - fat puffy thing in your closet), and your two season old Ugg boots, through the crowded parking lot. So, what if you almost got hit by two or three cars on the way, you finally reached the front door! Which was happily(or not) opened for you and that not-so-kindly old woman with the mouth of a sailor. Who pushed you out of the way when you reached for your favorite Mac make-up. Yet, she was kind enough to make eye contact with you before shuffling off to relentlessly snag away the eye liner from the hands of some poor overwhelmed make-up girl standing like a child who just lost her parent in the super market.
Aside from the near miss in the parking lot - the shopping isn’t too bad. And those red lines on your wrists from carrying all those bags will go away before you get home. So, no worries.
However, you would like the drive way of your home to look less like a Hollywood Red Carpet Premier (if only Penelope Cruz or Brad Pitt would walk out and help you with your bags), and more like- well, a home.
Why is Santa Clause suddenly on the beer inside the fridge? And that red mark on your hand, its not from the bags, but an allergic reaction from the mistletoe hanging above your head. Why the mistletoe this year is real - is beyond you. But you’re about to be relieved by the arrival of your favorite fuzzy cousin, ready to give you their classic “sloppy kiss”, because you’re right where you shouldn’t be. We’ll give you a head start. Three, two, one …
Despite the rash, scraped knee from running away from mistletoe kisses, and nearly burning the Christmas tree - no, that wasn’t your fault. It was your sister’s cat. Though now the house smells like pine, and the tree only burned on one side. But outside aesthetics over power inner house hold beauty, and you and the rest of the family get to see the carnage daily. Or at least until Christmas Eve when you turn the tree to the perfect position where no one, but Never-Miss-A-Thing-Grandma, can see the gaping black wound in the tree.
Your parents didn’t fight - divorced or otherwise. You gay cousin joined in the games, and actually stayed past dinner this time. Though sadly, the chestnuts did not survive being roasted on an open fire - thank Dad for that one.
But as you sit to the side, because the family and squealing children became too much for your ear drums ( it’s okay, it happens to us all). You eye that slowly clumping Eggnog, or thick cinnamon creamer (which was, again, Dad’s idea)in your hand and realize that no matter what you have experienced this holiday season, you remember at least three things of somewhat vital importance. One, it isn’t over just yet. Two, while Bailey’s is nice - people can tell the difference.
Three; you are happy, and you are thankful for having such an actively obnoxious family tree. Its that stupid holiday joy that you just can’t avoid. Despite your aunt and her inane rambling.
Next year, let’s invite the Jewish kid over. He’s unorthodox, anyway.
Who: Conversational second person
For: the holidays :3
Notes: This is more written from a girls point of view, so boys don't worry.
Every holiday season we go through the same events. The, somewhat, laborious effort of calling dad and digging for answers to questions about time and places, and needed, or other wise desired food. Then the hunt for the perfect outfit, and then the dreadful wait of having to put on said outfit, that for some reason, as it sits on its hanger with the tags still attached - looks more and more horrific by the second.
November, thankfully, brings the cold of winter and so now it doesn’t matter how much you resemble a fashion disaster in bright turquoise plaid. You’ll be safely covered by that saucy leather jacket, that even though its three seasons old, it still makes you look like Hallie Berry’s Catwoman.
Five pounds? What five pounds?
Black is slimming, and you still look fantastic! Just look how the leather - curves over those hips. Which is good, because as soon as those Thanksgiving dinners are over, those five pounds will look - much better than the current ten sitting around your waist and thighs.
So, we’ll just keep that Catwoman pleather on. It makes the turquoise less - startling.
Onward, to December, but don’t forget Black Friday! The hustle and bustle, shoving, pushing, grabbing, running. It’s just so fun to limp back to your car. This, of course, is excluding the fact that you just lost 300 calories walking in that Catwoman Pleather (because it’s the only warm, good looking coat you own aside from that - fat puffy thing in your closet), and your two season old Ugg boots, through the crowded parking lot. So, what if you almost got hit by two or three cars on the way, you finally reached the front door! Which was happily(or not) opened for you and that not-so-kindly old woman with the mouth of a sailor. Who pushed you out of the way when you reached for your favorite Mac make-up. Yet, she was kind enough to make eye contact with you before shuffling off to relentlessly snag away the eye liner from the hands of some poor overwhelmed make-up girl standing like a child who just lost her parent in the super market.
Aside from the near miss in the parking lot - the shopping isn’t too bad. And those red lines on your wrists from carrying all those bags will go away before you get home. So, no worries.
However, you would like the drive way of your home to look less like a Hollywood Red Carpet Premier (if only Penelope Cruz or Brad Pitt would walk out and help you with your bags), and more like- well, a home.
Why is Santa Clause suddenly on the beer inside the fridge? And that red mark on your hand, its not from the bags, but an allergic reaction from the mistletoe hanging above your head. Why the mistletoe this year is real - is beyond you. But you’re about to be relieved by the arrival of your favorite fuzzy cousin, ready to give you their classic “sloppy kiss”, because you’re right where you shouldn’t be. We’ll give you a head start. Three, two, one …
Despite the rash, scraped knee from running away from mistletoe kisses, and nearly burning the Christmas tree - no, that wasn’t your fault. It was your sister’s cat. Though now the house smells like pine, and the tree only burned on one side. But outside aesthetics over power inner house hold beauty, and you and the rest of the family get to see the carnage daily. Or at least until Christmas Eve when you turn the tree to the perfect position where no one, but Never-Miss-A-Thing-Grandma, can see the gaping black wound in the tree.
Your parents didn’t fight - divorced or otherwise. You gay cousin joined in the games, and actually stayed past dinner this time. Though sadly, the chestnuts did not survive being roasted on an open fire - thank Dad for that one.
But as you sit to the side, because the family and squealing children became too much for your ear drums ( it’s okay, it happens to us all). You eye that slowly clumping Eggnog, or thick cinnamon creamer (which was, again, Dad’s idea)in your hand and realize that no matter what you have experienced this holiday season, you remember at least three things of somewhat vital importance. One, it isn’t over just yet. Two, while Bailey’s is nice - people can tell the difference.
Three; you are happy, and you are thankful for having such an actively obnoxious family tree. Its that stupid holiday joy that you just can’t avoid. Despite your aunt and her inane rambling.
Next year, let’s invite the Jewish kid over. He’s unorthodox, anyway.