Come and Sit on my Lap Little Girl

Well it's that time of year. Yes the fat man will soon be squeezing his wobbly gut down a chimney near you soon. Well, if you haven't been too naughty that is.

I've always been a bit of a bah humbug kind of girl when it comes to Christmas. I still am to a certain extent, but I've discovered over time, that Christmas actually appeals to my perverse sense of humor. So, as a treat for myself, and hopefully you, I'm going to fester all over my blog for the next two weeks. To start off with though, I've decided I should give you a bit of an idea about where my bad Christmas attitude started. In case you haven't guessed, this is where I blame my family for everything...oh, and Santa of course.

As a child, I remember being terrified of sitting on Santa's knee. Yes I could sprout the argument of, it's the one time of year your parents actually encourage you to talk to a stranger who gives you lollies, but that's not what this post is about. Besides, I like it when men give me sweets and I've always found strangers interesting.

To give you an idea of my memories of Santa I've decided to show you a few pictures. Yes, me as a child with with the old fat pervert himself. I'm not the keeper of the photo archives in the Graham family, but I do have a few of the more terrifying memories captured on celluloid (I know I'm old.)

So here we go, my bah humbug attitude toward Christmas- the formative years.


1965: The chill out year

At three months old I obviously didn't give a shit

who's lap I sat on. Not that I'm looking at the old

jerk, but still, when you're three months old you're

still learning to focus.

 1966:  The terror begins

By the time I was 15mths old, I no longer had issues with focus. I could see that red and white monster and I wanted nothing to do with him. In order to stop me crying and actually get me anywhere near the old fool, some genius came up with the idea of sitting me on a bike. You'll all be happy to know I recovered from the conclusion I got when I toppled off the damn thing. However, I don't think my brother ever recovered from the death grip Santa had on his arm.

1967: I'm not here and neither is he.

Ah, 2yrs 3mths and the brain kicks in. Okay, so I'll sit on his lap and just try to ignore him. I can't smile, but I can bite my bottom lip to stop from screaming as old man Santa whispers encouraging nothings in my ear. If he'd just shut up I'd be able to get to my happy place. Now say the mantra you thought up...I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm not here.

                                              

1969: I'm going to get you for this my pretty!

By the time I reached four years of age, fear was starting to get old. I devised a new plan for the jolly fat man and the happy snap elf with the camera. Be nice, get the lolly and then make your parents pay. Yes, I'm still nervous and biting the bottom lip, but there's vengeance in those eyes. Just wait, I might not get you back right away but when I'm a teenager, I'll be your worse nightmare. My memory is long...you'll see.

 

1971: Are we done yet?

Yes, by the time I was seven years old, I'd truly had enough. Enough of the frilly dresses, enough of the bribes and threats, enough of sweaty old men, in red velvet suits, with white nylon beards. No more biting the lip, no more tears. Just that are-we-done look that persisted in pictures throughout my childhood and into my teen years.

I think, for a seven year old, I did bored pretty well. Of course I'm perfected it by the time I was a teenager. And for those of you wondering if 4 year old Jan got her plotted revenge. Of course she did. I was a horrible teenager. *evil grin and wicked laugh*

Something is wrong, were fixing it soon.

This past week I feel like my life has been one long error message. I hadn't been able to figure out what was wrong until I was trying to update my website and a message popped up on my screen. Something is wrong...we're fixing it soon. Just great! It was only then it occurred to me, maybe the problem is me. Well, metaphorically of course. It never ceases to amaze me that the universe can send you enlightening massages through the most benign circumstances. My decline started last Saturday on an escalator at Central Station in Sydney, around 10 a.m. in the morning. Contrary to what some of my friends think, I was NOT drunk...lol. I managed to see the day through until around 3 p.m, then I had to call an end to my planned weekend of fun and frivolity. I retreated arriving home about two hours later, very sore and hardly able to walk. Poor me. The week just got worse from then on.

I had so much work to do, including finishing my second book. Up until I'd gone to the city I'd been flying through the pages, everything falling into place, sticking to my schedule of at least one chapter a day. After the incident, everything stopped, just like the bloody escalator.

Sunday I decided to rest, I took painkillers and slept most of the day and night. Monday I knew I had to get back to work. I had a schedule, daily tasks to complete, a To Do list a mile long. I tried to write a few blogs...it didn't work. I didn't like them, the words wouldn't come out the way I thought they should. I opened my manuscript, then closed it. If I can't get a blog to make sense then how can I write a book. I decided I'd give myself another day off and went back to bed to read. Tuesday I managed to finish the guest blogs I'd been working on and emailed them away, I did a couple of tweets and updates on a couple of other sites. I opened the manuscript, then closed it. It all seemed overwhelming. I went back to reading the book I'd chosen the day before. The rest of the week continued the same way, turn on computer, check emails, tweet, post, open manuscript, close manuscript, go to bed and read. Outside the rain pelted down on the ground, the sky was grey, the clouds dark an ominous. It reflected my mood perfectly.

By Friday I was firmly entrenched in a dark lazy cocoon. I constantly ran through the tasks I knew I had to complete. Write two book reviews - at least I've finished reading the books, I'll do the reviews later. Do a final edit and submit the second novella in the Sydney Cougar series to my publisher- it's not good enough and I don't feel like being rejected in the mood I'm in. Work on completing Playing Jax, the second book in the Wylde Shore series - why bother, I don't even know if people will like the first one. I had no idea where the thoughts were coming from but I didn't resist them, I let them dwell. Big mistake. I swear if my name was Vincent van Gogh, I'd only have one ear by now. But I'm not Vincent and all I really had was a sore knee, a messed up bed, five completed novels scattering the floor, and a miserable attitude. I picked up the next book in the series I found myself reading and snuggled under the blankets. Who cares, not me.

On Saturday, after crying my way through the final chapters of Christine Feehan's Dark Melody, I realised the rain had stopped. So, with both ears still intact, I dragged myself out of bed, showered, dressed and took my lousy attitude to life out to do some grocery shopping. I will go back and apologise to the check out operator I growled at sometime within the next couple of days, after all it wasn't her fault she was in a good mood. Today I sat down at the computer determined to get back in touch with my old self. I sent the book review requests I had been putting off all week, did the social network stuff, returned emails and attempted to update the website. Error and inspiration message from the universe received. Thanks so much.

Something is wrong, we're fixing it soon. Well...no...I'm fixing it now actually. I'm fighting my way out of the fog and I'm on my way to turning my sappy, depressed attitude into a blessing. I've decided to channel my misery into my novels villain. She is a woman who likes to make people miserable because her own life is not turning out the way she wanted it too. Not that I'm like that, but I figure I can turn my current wallowing, oh poor me, life sucks week, into something worthwhile.