I think we can safely say I’m exhausted. A call centre chick with attitude bought me to tears today. I can’t even explain the stupidity of this. I then cried again when I rang back to complain about how she made me cry and the manager begged me not to cry, as she started to cry at my tears. Then we were both crying.
And that was after my bitchy resting face threatened to become a permanent feature on the weekend when I wasn’t served as fast as I wanted to be at the shops. A few weeks before Christmas. On a Saturday afternoon. Checking my privilege as we speak.
School holidays have arrived for Poss, and she’s starting to unwind, but I’ll be working through. It’s not that I’m not loving my job, I totes am. But sleep, sweet sleep, I just can’t get enough of it.
And where do I fit in the Christmas shopping that’s still left to be done. And the Christmas cards? Does anyone send them anymore? I don’t think we even have sticky tape in the house for the wrapping of the presents. And let’s pretend that we’ve got the Christmas tree up and it’s all sparkly and Christmassy. Yes, let’s pretend that.
The traditional Christmas photo is yet to be taken. This will mean that all my hopes to avoid the panic of the shopping centres will be null and void, as Poss demands a visit to the man in red to personally read her list of demands.
There was plans of baking and Christmas puddings. In reality these will be purchased and I may even sprinkle them with icing sugar. And not correct people when they compliment my baking. Ok, anyone who knows me would never believe I baked, but at least they’ll be edible.
Poss is counting down; apparently it’s 14 odd sleeps. Wonder how I will fit it all in. Maybe I can ask Santa for extra hours in the day?