The war on Christmas.

If I wasn’t 100% over Grismas before this weekend, I am now.

Between listening to a four-year-old sing the wrong words to “Deck the Halls” and dance around to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” on repeat.

And hanging lights on a house in the freezing-ass cold.

And going Grismas shopping in Target City in the pouring rain.

I have reached my limit.

Between their love of the holiday and their abject fear of Jitterbug’s wrath, the kids won’t even let me barter information on who is getting what in exchange for telling me what other people have got me.

Because “it’ll ruin Christmas”.

I don’t know about you, but I have enough anxiety without a whole new layer of secrets and lies hanging out for the next few weeks.

Don’t worry, I’ll just add the mysterious packages under the tree to my list of childhood guilt and 30 years worth of over-analyzed conversations that keep me awake at night.

It’s like my family just jumps out of a van on Black Friday and throws a huge santa hat over my head and drags me off to whatever the North Pole’s equivalent of Guantanamo Bay is…

They’ll start waterboarding me with eggnog soon.

I did nothing in the yard all weekend.

Lord Steel Bear had to return the trailer he was using to bring his tractor over to Lippincottonia.

So no destruction on Saturday.

And then it rained all day on Sunday.

I did manage to read the third volume of “Southern Bastards” though.

Thank goodness for small victories.

And we are back to Monday.

Which is the new booty day.

Assume the position.

See ya’ tomorrow.

More soon. ~SC