Mulled Rage

And then there was the Christmas of ’05, when I decided to make my Christmas cards by hand. All seventy of them. This involved a sprig of pine which I considered to be festive, a can of silver spray nonsense that will outlive the cockroaches in my first apartment, and a fistful of glitter pens.

Perhaps it was the guilt of being far away from family and friends. Or perhaps I was overcompensating, proving I hadn’t abandoned eccentric domesticity after the breakdown of my longterm relationship that year. Perhaps I secretly liked the spraypaint fumes. I must admit, they gave the eggnog a festive kick.

This is when it occurred to me, amidst the holiday DIY, manic shopping amongst the MILFs in the west end and Post Office palpitations, my workload hadn’t increased. Compared with previous years, that is. If anything, I was doing less work; a sizeable number of names had been crossed off the Christmas card and gift list, due to the demise of my relationship.

Had I really been doing ALL the heavy holiday lifting myself? A young, modern woman? MOI?!

Reader, I was pissed off. My efforts at festive cocktail evenings were just as they’d always been. I’d rush home from work, launch myself into the shower then plug my hairdryer in the kitchen socket so I could mull the wine while making myself passable. Just as I’d been doing for years.

And where the hell was the man in my life all these years? No idea. Probably arguing with other men on the internet while their girlfriends attached labels to handbaskets of designer soap. And why the hell hadn’t I demanded his assistance?

Because I’m conditioned to believe he’s useless at holiday stuff. I see it with my friends all the time. “Oh I’ll just do it myself, he’s no good at decorating the tree.”

Like hell he isn’t, he just makes a giant mess of it so he won’t have to do it again. Then he’s free to talk about Dungeons and Dragons on weird porn websites while the ladies frost eggnog glasses and remember to send a bottle of sherry to his great-grandmother in Richmond.

And that, ladies, is why I’ll never sign a man’s name on a Christmas card again.

Contact the author here: miriam@morningquickie.com