Santa baby, a word of caution on Christmas Eve: a real family lives in this house, and thus, I make no promises about the status of the place when you arrive.
Our home is not a palatial, designer castle. Our humble abode is, well, a humble abode. Consider yourself warned.
Now, I don’t want to dash your expectations about your snack on Christmas Eve, but newsflash big fella: I don’t bake cookies. I never have and I probably never will. Baking just ain’t my thing.
On the big night, when you arrive with gifts for my little family of four, you’ll find a nice gin and tonic with lime (you’re welcome), a bowl of rippled potato chips (because I care) and your very own tub of chip dip (I am not ashamed to bribe you to get what I want). Note that I didn’t cheap out here, darling. I got you the good stuff.
But the chip dip in the fridge is mine. Don’t even think about it, big guy. I have not cracked the seal on it yet. I am saving it for Boxing Day. It’s my post-traumatic-holiday-stress snack. I’ve earned it.
Don’t worry about taking off your boots either, sir. The floors are messy. Between paw prints, teenage sneakers and work boots, there is nothing you could drag in that we’ve not already brought in ourselves. Oh, and that smell when you enter the door? Yeah, that’s the teenage boy’s hockey gear. Be careful not to trip on that. Apparently, the “leave it where you dropped it” rule applies all season long.
If you need to use the washroom, just a head’s up: the big button on the back of the toilet for the big, nasty flushes is the only one that currently works – and by currently, I mean always. It’s on the to-do list. Don’t get me started.
Also, before you sit down on the porcelain throne, make sure there is toilet paper on the roll; there almost never is. Apparently, I’m the only member of my family who can change the roll. I’m also the only person who realizes we need a new roll before it is too late. Bonus points if you remember to put the toilet seat down.
We hope you’ll like our tree. It’s a beauty. The kids named it Joe and decorated it without supervision. It’s a tacky monument to our weird, wonderful family. It also smells much better than the hockey bag. In fact, when we’re done with it, we may stuff the tree in with the hockey gear until spring.
We’re not perfect. Our furniture doesn’t match, our décor lacks style, but home is where my heart is. So Santa, buddy, make yourself at home. Happiness lives here, and it’s messy. Know that we have everything we need and not much space for anything more (but I have room in the garage for that Mustang we talked about).
So, squeeze the lime into your gin, enjoy the good dip and leave the chip crumbs on the floor for the dog.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.