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What Am I? Chipped Beef on Toast?

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I’m sorry I have to spurt my disappointments. I know one day post Christmas I’m supposed to be all consumed with love and holiday cheer and nostalgia for Jimmy Stewart’s plight. Right now I’m just pissed off. I have been on this band wagon for twenty Christmas seasons and I don’t remember anyone spewing accolades for a job well done last evening as the last drop of eggnog was washed down the drain or as I put my aching tootsies at a higher elevation so as to see if I could drain some color back into my cheeks. I didn’t really care which cheeks got the surge. Damn it, I’m here! I’ve worked my butt off (thus the pale palor I’m referencing) does anybody care?

I don’t want to say I didn’t enjoy most of the laborious preparations because the anticipation is what gets me through it. And the look on my children’s faces Christmas morning, which, I’ll admit, while fleeting, is worth all of the hours and hours of backbreaking preparations. The house looks like a winter wonderland inside and out. I have a thing for beautiful, sparkly, and elaborate decorations. Everyone appreciates that when the lights are switched on each day. I know that. But that’s not about me. This would be a compliment wasted on an inanimate object.

What I’m looking for here is some recognition that I’m alive, whilst possibly hanging on by my fingernails this morning, December 26. That I am deserving of some recognition and thanks for effortlessly plopping down a dining spread for twenty-five that rivals Julie Child would be nice! Okay, they have no idea who Julie Childs is, so, of course, it stands to reason that they can’t possibly compliment appropriately. So, lets say instead, Emeril, then. Whatever.

Don’t forget that while I was in taxi mode on the runway of this first class flight to dining heaven I also was able to handsomely prepare gifts, wine, culinary contributions, and coral the cattle to keep us on schedule to get us all to the appropriate pre-holiday destination soirée a mornings drive away. Why was I not home slaving away in anticipation of a Le bec Fin dinning experience? Because I’m a good girl (a forty-nine year old girl) who always tries to please everyone and do the right thing by all. But instead of a teensie tinsy bit of thanks I’m getting constant comment. Isn’t that a bag of tea? Which to me brings comfort and soothing joy. I wasn’t feelin’ the love yesterday. What I was getting was constant correction and negative reinforcement that really made me want to throw my pretty little apron in their face and hop the next flight to St. Maarten!
Do I sound angry here? I do apologize. One thing I have learned is that I don’t have to apologize for myself but some people should be thinking about it this morning. It is an effort of love to do what we women do year after year, holiday after holiday. To make certain that the traditions continue, that the festivities are appropriately recognized and celebrated. All I say is celebrate me for a minute or two. Let me know that my aching back and swollen feet were all worth it. How do we get this message out to a houseful of men who can’t see past the ends of their beer bottles? I think this is one area that I forgot to address while I was busy frothing their coffees.

Next year, hum … what will I be doing? Probably the same thing. But maybe with a different attitude, if I can muster it. I don’t know, maybe a tray of nuggets from Chick-fil-a and a six-pack of Dr. Pepper … on ice!

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