Now, I love Christmas as much as the next person (perhaps more so), but there's a limit to how much jollity I can possibly squeeze into a single season.
Family Christmas letters informing me that Little Billy, age 2, is learning complex algebra at Stanford. I already feel badly enough about myself, thank you.
Posed pictures of your family sitting in front of a faux-fireplace. WE CAN ALL SEE THAT THOSE FLAMES ARE FAKE, LADY.
Mistletoe. The only one who ever kisses me under that stuff is my creepy neighbor with the shifty eyes.
Unless car companies are going to wrap a sedan in a fat, red bow and hand-deliver it to my house, they can stop pretending that if I loved someone, I'd buy them a car.
Ditto diamond companies.
Let's just get over the whole fruitcake thing and move on to actually delicious treats. Like DIAMOND-WRAPPED CARS!!!
If Santa is really watching me while I'm sleeping and knows when I'm awake, I should probably take out a restraining order, right?
The emergence of Christmas stuff in September makes me panicked that my mom-brain has (once again) forgotten what season it is.
Reason I will be awake at 3 A.M.: a crying, sick child. Reason I will never, ever be awake at 3 A.M.: The possibility of getting 15% off a 50" flatscreen if I'm maybe willing to stand in line for like three hours and potentially get trampled to death.