Monday, December 22, 2014

A Letter to Santa from a Middle-aged Woman.


Pinky and Santa c.1964 (Crying)




Dear Santa,


I know you’re quite busy at this time of year and I’m sorry this letter is arriving so late.

There is one thing I’m hoping to find in my stocking on Christmas morning as on the whole I think I've been a fairly good and honest girl this year apart from the time I dropped a sausage on the kitchen floor whilst cooking Scotto’s dinner but put it back on his plate anyway. It was the five second rule you see and I managed to get it out of the (recently wormed) Chihuahua’s mouth before he left any visible teeth marks.

I realise the floor hadn't been mopped for at least two weeks but that’s because I like to vacuum before I mop and I hadn't been able to vacuum for at least two weeks because the vacuum cleaner has been broken ever since I threw it against the wall in a fit of temper after it kept getting trapped on the skirting boards.
I know it was a relatively new vacuum cleaner and I have a violent history with that particular type of household appliance but the effort of vacuuming brings on the hot flushes which in turn bring on intense feelings of rage which leads to profuse bouts of swearing and a low tolerance towards aggravating domestic machinery causing one to hurl said items at the wall.
I know I really should have informed Scotto the sausage had spent a small amount of time on the floor in close proximity to the Chihuahua’s mouth but I made certain to offer him the pepper grinder so that if he happened upon any crunchy bits he’d not be overly suspicious. Besides, I've read that ingesting germs is good for the immune system and I’m not sure how many germs Scotto ingests each day but surely more can only be better.
The other point in my defence is that I’d been standing cooking the snags over a hot stove which is another effective way to provoke a hormonal surge inflaming one’s face with a burning uncomfortable flushing sensation, stimulating murderous emotions and hateful, internal self-questioning as to why in God’s name one is cooking sausages on a hot summer evening for one’s husband when one is in fact, a pescatarian and one’s husband is not a blind cripple.
When Scotto asked me if I’d remembered to buy his favourite smoky barbecue sauce I smiled pleasantly and confessed I’d forgotten again. I can assure you it was a smile not a spiteful smirk into my wine glass as it may have appeared to be on the surface. 

Although I sometimes find his peculiar obsession with needing every possible type of condiment available to mankind to be grating, I would NEVER deliberately forget the smoky barbecue sauce and think to myself we still had two bottles of the normal barbecue sauce and he could just deal with it or have nothing… because that wouldn't be very wifely or nice… would it? 


Scotto's Condiments

Similarly, when he asked me to fetch egg nog at the supermarket I would never lie to him and say they’d sold out because I’d noticed it was $4.80 a litre which is a ridiculous price to pay for glorified flavoured milk and because walking around the supermarket instigates hot flushes, anxiety attacks and bitter resentment as to how some people can drink egg nog until it’s coming out of their eyeballs and not get fat whilst others just look at it and gain another spare tyre. 


Scotto's Egg Nog


 That would be plain mean and not in the Christmas spirit at all.

Anyway dear Santa… the thing is, I have been very good this year and I was wondering if I could please have some estrogen in my stocking this year because it seems I may be running out of the silly hormone. 

Just the regular type will be fine and don’t worry about gift wrapping it… I’ll take it to go.

Love Pinky x

Pinky c. 1964




Tell me... what's on your wish list?

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT