2 biggest holidays of the year, back to back

I com­plete­ly nixed the sal­ad I had planned from the meal to­mor­row.
“They’re not gonna like this any­way.”
 

I love that we picked peak
“it’s cloudy and cold and gray and all I want to do is rest and sleep”
sea­son to com­pel peo­ple to spend lots of mon­ey and ef­fort on gath­er­ings with peo­ple they ad­mit­ted­ly don’t want to see.*

I’m sup­posed to be do­ing all kinds of shit around here to get ready for my in laws to come over to­mor­row and I haven’t done a sin­gle god­damn thing.

Half my Hal­loween dec­o­ra­tions are still up.

I’ve sat on my ass and played An­i­mal Cross­ing since I woke up to­day.

I can’t even be both­ered to care, hon­est­ly.
 

“Oh sor­ry there’s a pile of box­es in that cor­ner, I may have turned 39 this year but I’m tired like I’m 80.”
 

“Well I guess I ought to get start­ed.”
(Puts on a bra)
“That’s enough for to­day.”
 

“Oh that pile of nudie mag­a­zines? Oops!”
(We re­al­ly do have a stack of Camp Out and I’m tempt­ed to leave it out.)
 

At this point, I have only eat­en a waf­fle, two cups of cof­fee, and a mi­mosa.
Me:
“Blargh, why do I feel like I could slip into a coma?”
*eats a slice of cheese, some al­monds, and an ap­ple, drinks wa­ter*
“Oh. Duh.”
This whole “tak­ing care of my­self” thing. Some­times I’m just bad at it.
 

“Un­cle Jar­rett, these tar fumes are mak­ing me dizzy!”
“Yeah, they’ll do that.”
 

“What do you have to drink around here that isn’t al­co­holic?”
“Wa­ter.”

*uses in­dex fin­ger to wag­gle my lips as I sing*
“Hababababa­banb­s­bs ababacbcr­br­brobo­bos­b­s­b­sb tbtbtb­hb­hb­h­be­be­beb wb­wb­wb­w­babababa­batbtbtbt­be­be­be­be­br­br­brb­br”

 

—emi­ly duchaine

* If you love spend­ing time with them, that’s cool, this doesn’t ap­ply to you.

Flom­mist Emi­ly Duchaine lives in the Pa­cif­ic North­west. She likes to drink mead, learn about sharks, and lis­ten to the Talk­ing Heads. She pre­tends to be a pro­fes­sion­al busi­ness­woman most days. Copy­right © 2021 Emi­ly Duchaine.

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