Tis' The Season

If I'm really honest with myself, my Christmas wish is to have a home that resembles a magazine cover or a holiday Pinterest photo. My snarky remarks about Martha and any other broad who has homemade ornaments and coordinated place settings hides a deeper issue....I'm jealous that I don't have a house that looks like Better Homes and Gardens at Christmastime. You would be more likely to see my humble abode featured on Hoarders or some slap stick website poking fun at crooked trees and BBQ's covered in Christmas lights. My husband wasn't born with style either, so I can't depend on his keen eye to spruce up the yard or take any interest in matching bows on the tree. His idea of hanging Christmas lights includes a fifteen minute session on the front porch where he clumsily ties white lights to the handrail and then forces us all to stand in the street for fifteen minutes complimenting his handiwork. It's pretty fucking impressive. Almost as impressive as my attempts at hosting a Christmas party, which I am scheduled to do in two days. My house looks like a tornado swept through and smells like a vet's office on a hot afternoon. "What's that dead fish smell, Mom?" I explain that the dog chewed up a baby bird while they were at school and that he could really use a Tic Tac. I have mismatched plates, broken ornaments and a punch bowl that I found at the thrift store for two bucks, which takes on an even classier feel when I place the plastic ladle inside of it.

I want the secrets of these hostesses who greet you at the door holding a crystal mug filled with homemade eggnog, dressed to the nines in a shimmery shift dress, smells of pine trees wafting from inside. They smile, there is an air of ease as they show you to the kitchen where they have matching Santa bowls filled to brim with homemade every-fucking-thing you could ever want to snack on. There is Christmas music playing in the background, people laughing and her husband floats into the room wearing a suit coat and asks if he can whip me up something to drink. Yes, I'd like to sip on a cup full of your life.

On Saturday, my house will still look like people live in it, people who leave smashed Doritos between the couch cushions and snot rags on the counter. The smell will have improved, but only slightly and only because one of the guests wore too much cologne. We will drink out of plastic cups and they will be filled with shots of liquor that I found an hour before the party started, stuck behind the Play Doh in my kitchen cupboard. If I am wearing anything, it will be yoga pants, a hoodie and my slippers, which still smell like corn chips. My husband will make you a drink, but he will also make an inappropriate joke and I promise he won't be in a suit. We can only hope he's in clean pants, but I'm not making any promises. Forget about the decorations all together, we have a puppy who eats dead birds and dirty underwear, so pine cone wreaths are out of the fucking question. Tis' the season where my inability to host a party really shines through. Jealous yet?