You sick bastards.

Hi.

I’m only in the office for two days this week but I’m not even halfway through Day 1 and I’m already losing the will to live.

TO THE INTERWEBS!

After I wrote my 12 Days of Nutmas post, it got me thinking. What would people be searching for on the actual birthday of Jeebus? Would there be peace? Would there be good will toward men? Or would there just be more of the usual achy assholes and chocolate funbags?

Thanks to a quick look at my blog’s associated search queries for Christmas Day, the results are in.

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Mer-regiftmas

A friend of mine hosts the most hysterical white elephant parties every year after Christmas. The perfect combination of good friends, good food, and awful presents, they are hands down the highlight of everyone’s January.

Never been to a white elephant party? You’re missing out. Here are some of my winnings from past years (“winnings” might be too kind a term for some of them) which could have been yours:

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Baby, It’s Creepy In Here

The more I hear “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”, the more uncomfortable it makes me. Nothing says holiday classic like a date-rapey exchange by the fire, right?

Admittedly the first two verses aren’t so bad, but then she starts asking what’s in her drink (WTF?!) and he dodges the question and responds with manipulative flattery and guilt trips instead, and she’s like, dude you’re totally gonna ruin my reputation, and he’s like YOU WON’T HAVE A REPUTATION TO RUIN IF YOU CATCH PNEUMONIA AND DIE, BITCH and I’m like, HOLY MOTHER OF GOD this is why chaperones used to be a thing, people.

So I did a little editing. My version doesn’t quite have the same musicality of the original, but it helps me sleep better at night.

Also it’s shorter, and when it comes to Christmas music, shorter is usually good.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside But I Respect Your Boundaries

“I really can’t stay…”
“That’s cool. But baby, it’s cold outside…so take my scarf and some gloves. I don’t think we can get you a cab, but would you like me to walk you home?”

Much better.

Sunday Sing-along

I had so much fun with Friday’s 12 Days of Nutmas that I’ve decided to go ahead and ruin a few more of your favorite Christmas songs before the big day arrives. So get out your pitch pipes and corkscrews, because today we’re singing…

Let Wine Flow

Oh the weather outside is shitty
‘Cause it’s raining in the city
So crack open the Bordeaux
Let wine flow! Let wine flow! Let wine flow!

Though your family’s being awful
And you’re thinking things unlawful
Before you go striking blows
Let wine flow! Let wine flow! Let wine flow!

If we happen to sober up
How we’ll fester with anger and bile
But with booze brimming in our cups
We’ll take it all with a smile!

And later we’ll slip a fiver
To the designated driver
And we’ll sing in a drunken glow:
“Let it go! Let it go! Can’t hold it back anymo-” “HEY! Can it, Elsa. I thought I told you guys no more goddamn Frozen songs in my car.” “Sorry.”

The hangover never bothered me anyway.

Friday Fa La La La La La

Google Webmaster Tools is the gift that keeps on giving…me nightmares about what weird-ass things people have been searching that lead to my blog.

It was a bit of a challenge to slog through all the recent search terms to find a dozen which were amusing yet short enough to fit this carol, but I persevered for you, dear readers, since the holidays are all about togetherness and sharing. So let’s all join hands and sing a rousing chorus of…

The Twelve Days of Nutmas Christmas

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my Google gave to me:
Twelve horny convos,
Eleven trampoline dicks,
Ten achy assholes,
Nine pickled peckers,
Eight chocolate funbags,
Seven penis cancers,
Six butchered gardens,
Five boring socks!
Four pap smear photos,
Three spider whores,
Two ebola poes,
And a vegan hipster in a nut tree!

This is fun. What shall I mangle next?

Me: “I’m going on the naughty list, aren’t I?” Santa: “Yep.”

Why I sleep with otters.*

(*Because I don’t have enough weird fetishes represented in my search terms as it is.)

I fail at sleeping.

If there’s one thing I will forever be jealous of, it’s Nutty Hubby’s ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. He can nod off in almost any environment, no matter how public, loud or uncomfortable, in five minutes or less.

For me, trying to sleep means it’s time for every little solitary minute detail of the world to come flooding into my head for thorough dissection and analysis; a maze of intrigue created by my brain, to be solved before I am allowed the sweet respite of slumber.

For Nutty Hubby, trying to sleep is…wait, trying? People have to try to sleep? No no no no no. Do or do not, there is no try! LOL BRB ZZZZZzzZZzzzzzzZzzzzzzzzzzzz…

If I didn’t love him so much, I’d hate him.

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The Nine Inch Conspiracy

My husband is slightly obsessed with pie.

That’s not a euphemism for anything, the man just really loves baking.

He has his favorite crust recipe memorized. He has a cookbook full of every pie recipe you could ever think of, even the really weird ones like sour cream and raisin. He is the kind of person who will just randomly turn to you out of the blue and say, “What do you think, should I make a blackberry pie?”

And you’re like, “Okay, but we’re four hours from home on a winding mountain road at the moment so that might be a little difficult.” And he’s like, “Oh I know, I meant when we get back.”

We take our baked goods seriously in the Nut house, and everybody knows it. At least, I thought everybody knew it.

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Ghosts of Christmases past.

And so December 1st is upon us.

The craft and decor stores have been stocked with red, green and glitter since before Hallowe’en. Santa began making an unprecedentedly early commute to the local malls midway through November. The speakers in the main lobby have been encouraging me to have a Holly Jolly Christmas for over a week and a half.

Now that it’s December, I am no longer obligated to hate them.

Now that it’s December, “humbug” can go back to being a delicious candy instead of a dismissive statement. I can quit frowning at the giant red bows and garlands in shop windows. And Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say.

Now that it’s December, when Nostalgia comes knocking at my door, there will be a wreath on it.

And Nostalgia and I will sit in front of the crackling fireplace channel on TV with our cups of hot cocoa, and remember.


Remember the first Christmas we had our dalmatian Penny, who my mother immortalized in a spectacular oeuvre of digital art as you may recall, and who ran outside into that first winter’s cold with zero understanding of what ice was or how it would cause her to reenact Bambi in our backyard.

Complete with facial expressions.


Remember the year I woke up in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve and saw a glowing red light in the neighbor’s garden, which I would later insist to my mother was Rudolph’s nose.

String of red lights?   OMG RUDOLPH CLONES


Remember the first winter after my best friend Katie moved in just across the street and I finally had someone other than my parents or the dogs to play with in the snow.

That was the year our city, which doesn’t really “do” winter – at least, not in comparison to the rest of Canada – got a record five feet of snow over four days.

I was in heaven.

Especially since Katie’s backyard had two things I envied above all others: a hot tub, and a trampoline. Needless to say, we spent that winter doing completely sensible things like jumping out of the hot tub, rolling our bikini-clad selves around in the snow and then jumping back into the hot water, giggling uncontrollably, our skin as red and glowing as a couple of hyperactive lobsters. Or suiting up in our snow pants and puffy jackets, brushing the thin crust of ice off the trampoline, and double-bouncing each other off it into snowdrifts.

We drank endless mugs of hot chocolate, always adding in a handful of snow to cool each mug before we began sipping. It was only frozen water, but we swore it made the chocolate taste richer. It was a magic of our own making. We never questioned it.

That was also the year that the Nintendo 64 came out, and Katie got it for Christmas. When we weren’t out taunting the hypothermia gods or committing snowflake murder with our hot chocolate, we were glued to the TV, our slender fingers wrapped around those ridiculously designed controllers, pitting Mario against obese penguins or crashing spectacularly in Wave Race.

Dear Nintendo, I’m not sure you understand how hands work.

I can’t remember a happier winter. Young and free enough to spend all day in pursuit of fun, old enough to understand what a gift that was. That was the last year I can remember before depression began to take hold in my life. The last Christmas I didn’t have to try.


I live in an apartment now, with a husband and no dogs. There’s no hot tub and certainly no trampoline, no plush staircase to run down on Christmas morning, and I play my carols on an electronic keyboard instead of my parents’ shiny black baby grand. We have three Christmases instead of one, the gifts are almost never a surprise, and I can’t overindulge like I used to without severe penance at the gym in the following days.

I know I have a lot to be grateful for. Winter, with its stark beauty, remains my favorite season. But with each passing year, the holidays feel more like a chore. Which day do we spend with whom? What do we bring? How much should we spend? How many days can I afford to take off work?

As a child, Christmas is a picture postcard of a snowy street filled with scarves and sleds and glowing faces. As an adult, it’s a legal document with some holly stapled to the corner that scratches you every time you turn the page. The Noël Terms of Service.

I do my best to cope. I seek out those all-important little things to keep myself from cracking. But that girl I remember, that home, that naive joy, they’re lost, and I know it.

They are lost, but I am thankful for their memory.

And that I keep my game consoles in good working order.