Dear Santa...bah humbug!

I went outside a few minutes ago to get the spare bottle of ibuprofen out of my car, and then ran across the street to get myself a bottle of diet sprite. The ibuprofen is for my mouth, which 1/2 a lortab, 5 ibuprofen, 2 tylenol and an ice pack later is still in agony. The sprite will hopefully help calm my stomach, which is having it's own issues, in addition to the fact that i neglected to eat anything with all the painkillers. oops. But that's not the point. It's cold out there, and there are thousands of tiny, twinkling lights lining the streets. A painful reminder that it's the Christmas season once again. Not quite as painful as my stomach, but it's a reminder all the same.

In my professional opinion, December is probably the worst month of the year. Especially if you're considering health. Between finals, work, and the worry about what you're going to get for everyone, and how you're going to pay for it all...sleepless nights increase, stomach acid increases, blood pressure rises, possibilities of nervous breakdowns increase, and the frozen air is NOT nice and cozy like some holiday carols imply. Oh, to return to the Christmases of my youth. I was the angel in the Christmas play when I was two. I didn't have an ulcer then. The only sleepless night was Christmas Eve. (which is probably the biggest night of the year for Benadryl. You've gotta knock the little ones out somehow, right?)

And then, somewhere along the way, the magic wears off. You grow up. You help the nice sub-for-santa people bring in the Christmas presents after the brother and sisters have been given their Benadryl and have drifted off into a peaceful, drug-enhanced sleep. But in the end, it's all okay. There's still doughnuts and chocolate milk before presents. The Carpenter's vinyl still plays, and mom's beautiful alto voice drifts through the house as she sings along. Christmas morning, all is well. Maybe. But not so much anymore. Most of the magic left when mom did. Bless her heart, Annie tries, usually to the point of obnoxiousness, to bring some of it back, but most of her efforts are in vain. But to her credit, she keeps trying anyway. Annie loves Christmas. She's going to be a wonderful mother, when the time comes for her to do so. I know at times she's heartbroken that she's not a mother yet, but I think when the time comes she'll see that her patience will have paid off.

Last night was one of those sleepless nights. Part of it was due to the pain in my mouth. Some of it because of this stupid ulcer that is eating away at my innards. To say that I really, really don't feel good would be an enormous understatement. The majority of my insomnia, however, can be attributed to trying to finalize in my mind what everyone is getting, where i can cut back a little bit, trying to figure out how much my next check is going to be for and whether or not it'll be enough to cover everything i need it for between now and the end of the month. It's a fine line I walk, between planning everything out to the letter and flying by the seat of my pants. I'd like to believe that everything is going to be okay, but I don't. I've lost my faith in my fellow man. They tell me to "remember the reason for the season," but I have a few questions first. Questions that will never be answered. And all I want for Christmas is all that I can't have. Or give. So, I haven't decided if I'm going to write my letter to Santa this year. I think I've been on the naughty list for too long.

If I did, it would probably go something like this:

Dear Santa,

It's time again for that list of expensive toys that I can't afford for myself, don't really need, and will throw a tantrum that will outshine any two-year-old if I don't get. That's right--I'll out-tantrum Parkar and Irie. And as you probably already know, that's quite the accomplishment if either of them are in one of their moods...

First of all, I'm still waiting on that backhoe. I know you know what I'm talking about--we've discussed it every year for the last six years. I'm also still waiting for those matching four-wheelers for Tonks and I. There is much mud for us to go play in.

There's a young lady, Santa, who is one of the kindest, most compassionate people I know. I won't say her name, because if anyone found that out about her she'd make my life hell, but you know who she is. She needs to be cut some slack. People are always on her case about something. And she needs some good friends who can help her see how great she really is. She doesn't realize how much she means to us, and she's not very confident. That, and she needs cd's, and a fridge for her bedroom. Any way we can accomodate that, Santa?

More than anything, Santa, I want to alleviate some of the sadness in my family. I want there to be some way to assure a few individuals that it's okay to ease the fears and the heartaches that lurk in the deepest, darkest recesses of our minds.

I don't think Santa is listening, either.