Please Come Go Home for Christmas
December 23rd
Only one alarm and zero snooze buttons, and I was up and out of the bed before my husband. Consider it a record and the complete opposite of the norm. Kline was much better at being on time, always waking up at seven on the dot every morning, and I had a long-standing track record of running fifteen minutes behind.
But not today, people. Not freakin’ today.
I had too many thoughts of Christmas to-do’s swirling about in my holiday-fueled brain.
“What time is it?” Kline asked, his voice all raspy and sleep-filled. Goodness, he sounded sexy. I had the urge to crawl back into bed with him.
Stay strong, Georgia! Do not give in to temptation.
“It’s half past seven,” I answered, but I also kept my holiday game face on. Instead of losing precious planning time worshiping my husband’s naked body—don’t worry, I’ll make up for it tonight—I slipped on a pair of jeans, a thermal shirt, and my favorite cream sweater. If this outfit didn’t scream rustic cabin and happy holidays, I didn’t know what would.
I know. I know…You probably think I’m going slightly overboard with this, but I honestly think anyone who has had to experience a lifetime of tragic holiday celebrations with my family would do the same.
One Christmas, Aunt Rhonda called Blanche Devereaux a floozy whore who never should have been allowed to be a character on The Golden Girls, and I had to tamp down the urge to rage just so I could hold back my mother.
“Baby, it’s too early.” A soft, tired groan left his lips as he turned onto his back and patted the empty spot beside him. “The sun is barely up. Come back to bed.”
“Nope,” I responded, sitting down on the chaise lounger and slipping on my coziest and cutest pair of gray boots. “There is too much to do, which means I have no time to waste.”
“Benny,” Kline taunted. “Everyone is still asleep,” he said, and his voice had dropped to a deep and seductive tone. “I promise you there will be no wasting of time in this bed.”
Oh, Lord. Please give me strength, I silently prayed. Surely, Jesus would understand my dilemma. It was His birthday I was trying to make perfect.
“Baby, come back to bed,” he repeated, and my knees started to buckle.
Oh no… Don’t look at him. Don’t even make eye contact with him.
I closed my eyes and said, “No, Kline. I have too many things to get done today.”
“Well, at least come over here and give your husband a kiss.”
I opened my eyes and blew him a kiss from the doorway, and he smirked.
With his blues glimmering and his hair all tousled and sexy, my husband was too tempting for my own good, and a real kiss was too persuasive on the wrong side of the battle with my vagina.
But my husband wasn’t taking my shit, floozy, temptress vagina or not.
“Not good enough,” he stated and sat up in the bed, his bare and toned torso peeking above the white comforter. “A real kiss, Benny girl.” He made a little come-hither motion with his index finger.
“One kiss.” I put a defiant hand to my hip. “One kiss and no monkey business. Got it?”
He grinned. “Got it.”
I strode with purpose, closing the distance between us, and the instant I leaned down to give him a gentle yet very PG kiss to his lips, he snagged his arms around my waist and yanked me back into bed with him.
“Kline!”
He chuckled and flipped me onto my back, maneuvering his strong frame above mine. “God, you’re beautiful.”
Shit.
He kissed my neck, and my body betrayed me, a moan slipping past my lips.
Double shit.
“Kline,” I half whined and half moaned when his greedy lips moved across my neck and up to my ear. “I don’t have time for distractions.”
“I thought I was your husband.” His quiet, amused chuckles pushed warm air against my skin. “Not a distraction.”
“Right now, you’re both and one hundred percent evil.”
He leaned back, and his blue eyes met mine. “I’m just a man who is crazy in love with his beautiful wife.”
This man would be the death of me. One day, I’d swoon myself straight into a fluffing coma.
“You’re truly the sweetest, most perfect man I know, and I love you deeply,” I said and touched his cheek. “But right now, I can’t let you unleash that swoony charm of yours on me. I have one million things to accomplish before this day is done.”
He quirked an adorable brow. “Swoony charm?”
“Oh, don’t act all naïve and innocent.”
My husband smirked and pressed a soft, tender kiss to my lips. “Okay, I will let you off this bed, but only under one condition,” he said. And then added, “Actually, make that two conditions.”
“And what would those conditions be?”
“Put on a pot of fresh coffee, and promise me that tonight, after we put the kids to bed, I get to distract you in this bed as much as I fucking want.”
“Deal.” I pressed a smacking kiss to his lips. “Now let me go so I can get a move on it.”
“You got it,” he whispered, and after a playful slap to my ass, he let me on my determined way.
After a quick peek into the girls’ bedroom to find them still sound asleep, I headed downstairs to the kitchen. I smiled to myself when only the gorgeous sounds of silence filled my ears. Everyone else was still in bed, and I could ease into my day without chaos. I was damn near giddy over the thought.
Once I preheated the oven for today’s breakfast of cinnamon rolls and filled up the coffee machine with fresh water and set it to brew, I sat down on one of the wooden kitchen barstools and started to peruse this morning’s agenda.
Christmas To-Do’s
December 23rd:
1. Laundry: Wash the adults’ and kids’ pajamas for Christmas Eve.
2. 9:00 a.m.: Cinnamon Roll Breakfast.
3. 10:00 a.m.: Grocery store for fresh items for Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas Day breakfast and dinner.
4. 12:00 p.m.: Make Your Own Pizza lunch with the kids.
5: 1:00 p.m.: Make (and wrap) the dads’ Christmas gifts from the kids.
5. 2:00 p.m.: Christmas Story Time with Santa Thatch.
6. 3:00 p.m.: Wrap presents with Cassie.
The coffee machine dinged its gorgeous alarm, and I glanced away from my agenda and focused on the first order of business for today: coffee. Once my veins had reached their daily caffeine quota and breakfast was in the oven, I could dive headfirst into today’s planned events.
I hopped off my barstool and grabbed a Santa-themed mug from the cabinet, and moments later, my taste buds danced over that first sip of fresh brew.
There really was nothing like that initial sip of coffee in the morning. Pure heaven, I tell you.
With my mug in hand, I took in the cabin’s wooded views while I finished the morning’s first cup of coffee. Slightly distorted snow-capped mountains and evergreen trees told me that seeing everything from the window wasn’t enough. I wanted to feel the crisp temperature against my skin and inhale the fresh mountain air, and I wanted the edges of nature’s beauty to be stark and defined.
After tossing on my jacket and scarf, I headed out onto the back deck. Between the peace and quiet and the breathtaking sights, it was better than I’d remembered. This view was exactly why Kline and I had decided to purchase this rustic cabin.
Gosh, I love this place.
I grinned to myself and lifted my mug to take another sip of coffee, but my hand paused in midair when I heard a faint, “Come out here!” coming from somewhere behind me.
What the heck? I swear that sounds exactly like my dad…
My eyes went wide for a beat until I realized it would be absolutely ridiculous and impossible for my parents to be anywhere near our cabin. They knew nothing of our plans nor our location, and they’d never been up to our cabin before now.
I laughed to myself as I shook off the absurdity of my thoughts. They weren’t here. I’m imagining it.
“Dick!” a different, still very familiar voice called, only louder this time. “Where are you?”
“I’m outside! Come check out this view, Vanna! You’re going to love it!”
What in the ever-loving shit? Fuck, fuck, fluffing fuck.
I strode across the deck and headed for the porch. Coffee sloshed out of my mug with every other step, but I didn’t care. I had to see if what I was hearing was real.
I rounded on the cabin, my heart beating very nearly out of my chest, and I peeked around the final corner with fear filling my whole body from bottom to top.
A giant RV occupied every square inch of our front yard.
Like, literally every square fucking inch.
Not to mention, my father, Dick Cummings, stood outside the RV’s door in a red velvet bathrobe, bare legs covered only by a pair of black galoshes, and a giant smile consuming his face.
“Georgie!” he called toward me. “We made it!”
My jaw didn’t hit the ground; I was pretty sure it just fell right off my fucking face.
“Dick!” my mother shouted as she opened the RV door. “Oh! There you are!”
“Look who’s awake, Vanna,” my dad announced as he pointed toward me. “Our favorite Georgie girl!”
My mother looked across the yard to find me standing slack-jawed and most likely one skipped heartbeat away from passing the fuck out. “Oh, Georgie honey! Good morning!”
“We burned the midnight oil getting here last night!” my dad exclaimed. “But have no fear, we managed to get a few hours of shut-eye so we can join in on all the holiday fun today!”
Have no fear? Was he fucking kidding me?
Fear was the only emotion I had.
Visions of Christmases past danced around in my head, and by the time my thoughts had rounded Terror Lane and headed straight for Worst-Case Scenario Boulevard, I had to shut my eyes just to avoid the possibilities of what another holiday spent with my parents would mean. Explosions…the cabin going up in flames…the deck sliding down the mountain…
And the insurance policy on this cabin was in my name! At least disaster at their house didn’t up my premiums.
“What in the fluffing hell is going on? It’s not even nine in the morning!” my best friend’s voice filled my ears, and I opened my eyes to find her peeking outside the French doors of one of the guest bedrooms.
“Cass! Who’s out there?” Thatch’s voice filled the otherwise quiet morning air, and moments later, his giant head peeked over Cassie’s shoulder and out the doors. “What the hell is that?” He squinted against the early morning sun. “Who parked their house on the lawn?”
“Cass! Thatch!” my mother called up toward them with a wave. “Good morning!”
“Savannah?” Cassie questioned, and my father went ahead and answered for her.
“It’s Dick and Savannah, honey!”
Both Cassie and Thatch grinned. Like actual, happy grins.
Those were two things I wasn’t feeling or doing in that moment. Hadn’t anyone remembered the point of this holiday was to avoid the tragic Christmas scenarios that stuck to my family like glue?
“Dick, my man,” Thatch hollered down at my parents. “When did you get here?”
“Late last night!”
“That’s fantastic!”
It only took a few moments of shouting for my body to eventually jolt out of its frozen state of shock. “All right! Everyone inside. We don’t need the neighbors to think there’s some sort of domestic dispute.”
“Sorry, Georgie!” my dad continued to shout, and I cringed. “We’ll get dressed and come inside for breakfast! Hope you’re making something good for us!”
Jesus Christ. Making something good for them? I didn’t even fucking invite them.
But seriously, who did invite them? That was the biggest question of the morning.
I looked up at Cassie and Thatch and scrutinized their faces. Was it them? Were they the assholes who spilled the beans to my parents?
Eventually, Cassie’s eyes met mine, and she immediately started shaking her head. “It wasn’t me, Wheorgie,” she called down. “It was not me.”
“What wasn’t you, Cassie?” my mother yelled toward her.
“I was just telling Georgia that all of the loud sex groans last night were from Thatcher,” she lied. “He gets so horned up when I tickle his balls while we’re banging.”
Yeah, real nice cover-up, Cass.
Nothing said Happy Holidays like a good old testicle tickle.
I shut my eyes and sighed.
If anyone ever wanted to know what The Nightmare Before Christmas really looked like, it was this—my best friend shouting about tickling her husband’s balls while my dad scratched his own through his Hugh Hefner-style robe on my front lawn.
“Hey, Thatch, check this out!” My dad’s voice forced me to open my eyes again. “Merry Christmas! Shitter was full!” he exclaimed as he reenacted the infamous scene from Christmas Vacation with a hose from our yard pointed directly toward the sewer.
Thatch and my dad started cracking up, and I wanted to kill everyone.
“Dad!” I called his attention. “Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen. I’ve got cinnamon rolls and coffee for breakfast.”
He responded with a thumbs-up and a smile, and I headed inside before I did or said something I would regret.
As I walked into the kitchen and put the cinnamon rolls in the oven, I mentally added another item to my to-do list.
ASAP: Figure out who in the fuck invited my parents to Christmas in the Catskills.