Bah-humbug. Yep, I said it.
I know romance novelists are supposed to love the holidays; the sparkling lights, those damned "Every Kiss Begins with Kay" commercials and the love.
Nah. Not the kid. You'd think that I would enjoy Christmas— Christmas Eve — I love. But Christmas, all the materialism and folks with their hands out, not so much.
How can I love Christmas Eve and not Christmas you ask, if you're still reading, well that's my parents anniversary. They've been married for hundreds of years, in the age of 72 day marriages.
After we laugh and celebrate another year of matrimony between the two of them, I'm burnt out.
And I'm also burnt out on Christmas starting in October.
The radio stations playing the same six Christmas songs sang by different artist for a whole dog gone month!
People forgetting the real reason for the season.
Hearing about someone else's family drama and then being told, "don't put that in your next book." So, why did you tell me?
I'm tired of people asking me when I'm going to have a kid. I'm going to start asking them when are they going to contribute to the Cheris's kid fund.
I'm burned out on the people who you only see once a year and they arrive with Tupperware and Reynold's Wrap. Umm, I'm the only one who can treat my mother's kitchen like a take out, thank you.
And I don't want to hear The Temptations sing Silent Night ever again in life.
But I do want to hear This Christmas by Donny Hathaway. Hey, I am a romance novelist and that is the most romantic song ever. However, if I hear the Whispers' version, I'm throwing eggs at the radio station!