When life hands you lemons, toss them in the trash and eat cake

Holidays on Eggshells, Day 5

First off, Merry Christmas! I wish every one of you much happiness during the holidays and a stellar 2012. XOXO.

Now on to the other stuff…

A Christmas Miracle & A Sound of Music Rewrite

9:56 p.m. (December 24) — Watching The Sound of Music on network TV, alone and perfectly content (dare I say happy?)

I avoided the SIL Christmas Eve gala! After attending a stress-free and happiness-inducing Children’s Christmas mass this evening with T (I can’t continue this charade — you know who you are and you are definitely not a “Denise” my friend) and her dear son M, I decided to not drive 120 miles round-trip to an uncomfortable evening. This evening would’ve featured a very lumpy rug, because so much stuff had, and will continue to be, swept under it. My sanity is hanging from a frayed and fragile string and I didn’t want to tempt fate (or gravity). I am also sad tonight about my ex and need to reflect in a chaos-free environment. Yes, everyone thinks he’s an ass and that I should hate him, but not tonight. I spent last Christmas with him and it was a special weekend with his family. (Cue Memory sung by Babs.)

So after mass, I called Mavis — who was already at mySILs, an hour away — and said N O P E, not coming. She was not happy. Pissed, actually. So here I sit, blissfully watching The Sound of Music on TV,  nursing a Jameson’s and waiting for the cow manure to hit the fan when Mavis and Dick get home. The wonderful part: I don’t give a shit.

So in the spirit of the holidays, I give you a rewrite of the The Sound of Music‘s “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.” (NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Edited song lyrics below are in bold. And yeah, nothing rhymes and I really don’t care.)

Let me set the scene: This is where the handsome and dashing Rolf, a mere delivery boy who will soon join Hitler’s Army (but we don’t know that yet), delivers a telegram to Cpt. Von Trapp’s house. He’s really there to see Leisl, the eldest (and gorgeous) Von Trapp daughter; she sneaks out to meet him in the greenhouse and, of course, they sing. And dance. And almost kiss. Because this is a musical, where people break out in song at random moments and then magical kisses are interrupted by sudden thunderstorms.

Your life
gorgeous and intelligent woman
is an empty page
that you (not men, unless you let them in the future, after you have a strong, unwavering sense of your own self) will want to write on

To write on (thinking to herself, I WILL be writing on it, not you, you soon-to-be Nazi drone)

You are 12 going on 38
it’s time to think
Better beware of Nazis in telegram-delivery-boy clothing
Be a brilliant and funny and independent
woman, you’re on the brink of greatness

You are 12 going on 38
Fellows will fall in line
Eager young lads
And grueways and cads (what the hell is a grueway?)
Will offer you fruit and wine
And you will kick them in the balls and send them packing

Totally prepared are you
To face a world of Nazi and/or childlike, commitment-phobic men
Timid and shy and scared are these undeserving men
Of things beyond their pea-sized brains

You DO NOT need someone
Older and wiser
Telling you what to do
Physically and mentally, I may be 17 going on 18
And I have no freaking idea how to take care of you

I am 12 going on 38
I know that I’m not nearly as stupid and naive as your ex-girlfriends
Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet
And I will not fall for that overused line that only means they want to get into my pants

I am 12 going on 38
Bachelor dandies
Drinkers of brandies
What do I know of those — Oh yeah, they are tools

Totally prepared am I
To face a world of men
Knowledgeable and intelligent and brave am I
Of things beyond my ken

I need someone
Like my strong and confident inner voice
Telling me what to do
You are 17 going on 18
Please just go away, I’m better than you

Hugs and kisses on this Christmas Eve, and thank you for reading my blog. I have to believe the upcoming new year will be great, otherwise I’m going to stop nursing the Jameson’s and just start doing shots.


PS: I know it may not seem like it from my Betty Friedan-inspired rewrite above, but I do love men. Non-nazi, smart, make-me-laugh-my-ass-off, willing-to-someday-commit men. I know they exist. Don’t they? Dear Virginia, er, I mean Anna: Yes there really is a nice guy out there that’s going to knock your socks off some day…

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