taking the passive out of passive-aggressive

Monday, December 23, 2002

It’s the night before Christmas Eve, what is that? Christmas Eve Eve? It feels like that, anyway. When I was little, the house would’ve been filled with baking smells—but I can’t bake, my best domestic effort is cleaning, so my house smells like bleach. I kept worrying I’d be poisoned, as I scrubbed the walls and doorjambs and baseboards. I kept wishing I knew how to mix flour and butter into something meaningful. I ordered pizza instead, and then stomped the box into a little square for the garbage men.

I’ve got forty-five presents to wrap and eight dozen hors d’oeuvres and seven bottles of wine. I’ve got wrapping paper and Scotch tape and ornaments and a Christmas tree and four strings of lights. I’ve got my vow—that I won’t go to Catholic mass this year, what with the way they handled the abuse thing. And I’ve got a Christmas dress and even stockings and heels. I’ve got some Christmas checks, and I’ve got a week off work, and a cold beer.

I am merry.

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