Out of the festivities into the realities *
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
(* a favourite column)
Head thumping? Throat feel like you've just indulged in an all-night
karaoke session with Jimmy Barnes? House smells of, er, festiveness? Gift
wrapping/sticky-tape globules as far as the eye can see? Stomach bulging as if about to give birth to an alien spawn with acid blood?
It can only mean one thing: either you have a really weird social
life, or it's the morning after the day of the in-laws, out-laws, turkey and
plum pud.
How to tell which? Well, I give you the top signs and omens that
Christmas is over:
THE dog barfs up fruitcake and punch.
THERE are sales signs up in stores, slashing prices far more than
the “sale” that was there last week.
MASTERCARD and Visa representatives keep popping by with tape
measures to “look” at your house, for “no reason” at all.
IT suddenly seems perfectly normal to wake up, roll over and have a
quick breakfast comprising room-temperature rumballs, left-over White
Christmas, all washed down by fruit-mince pies and a pickled onion.
YOU discover exactly how long human hands can stay immersed in tepid
washing-up water before the flesh starts distintegrating completely.
YOUR clothes have shrunk but, oddly, only in the stomach region.
THE true pain of the words “batteries not included” comes to haunt
you.
YOU keep finding tinsel in random body cavities.
GRAVY no longer smells as enticing as it did at lunchtime yesterday.
NEITHER does Grandpa.
ALL your plates and bowls are missing. And they're in the fridge.
YOU remember why you meant to desex the excitable family pooch.
YOU remember why you only have the extended family over once a year.
(See above.)
SANTA neckties and tinny carol music no longer seem “awww-so-cute”.
A SLEW of Christmas cards arrive in the post from those people you
hoped you were “safe” in not sending a card to this year. Short of faking
your own death for their benefit, you realise you've been had, and they have the moral high ground now for another 365 days.
YOU declare you will never eat again. And you really think you mean
it.
YOU declare you will never drink again. And you really think you
intend to mean it. Some day.
YOUR bank increases service charges on all transactions and
withdrawals and cheerily wishes you a “Happy New Year”.
YOU discover that pine needles and vacuum cleaners don't mix any
better than little children and red cordial.
YOU now know exactly who in your family is gay, pregnant or setting
up underworld businesses with Mafia links this year, thanks to a second
cousin.
YOUR overflowing wheelie-bin needs three large men and a sturdy ramp to
manhandle it to the curb.
YOU suddenly remember why you used to wish your mother-in-law would
get cooties.
YOUR colleagues suddenly don't seem like such a bad bunch of people
after all. (See above.)
THE fridge is so full it couldn't chill a grape and yet you persist
in cramming food in there like a Tokyo train conductor, with the philosophy
it might eventually change its mind and commence chilling, er, soonish.
YOU no longer guiltily think of the starving children when you start
tossing out leftovers, reasoning “what would they want with congealed
ice-cream cake with smeared Smarties stains anyway?”.
PLASTIC rayguns, with 27 “fun” and unique shooting-noise settings
seem remarkably flimsy when smashed 750 times with a large, heavy mallet.
(Go figure.)
YOUR idea of a fantasy holiday getaway is now your bed, with you in
it, for a month.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 26 DEC 2000