You can shove your citizenship test up your poxy date. No one has the right to decide what being Australian is. I was born here and I have no idea. But I do know what it isn’t, and what being Australian isn’t is testing people on what they know about some white pen-pusher’s idea of Australia. This is the country whose citizens pride themselves on not knowing the words to their own country’s anthem.

Here’s my citizenship test, my Bill Of She’ll Be Rights if you will.  And if you don’t like it, you can rack off and go back to your own country. You know what the most un-Australian thing in the world is? Migrants. And we don’t want them coming here with their fancy food, classy culture, rich traditions and willingness to contribute.

LANGUAGE

. Do you understand the meaning, but are unable to explain the origin of, the term ‘died in the arse’ ‘cracked the shits’ and ‘yeah, na’?

. What is a mole?

. Have you ever ‘suffered in your jocks’?

. Are these terms related: chuck a sickie; chuck a wobbly; chuck a U-ey?

. Explain the following passage: “In the arvo last Chrissy the relos rocked up for a barbie, some bevvies and a few snags. After a bit of a Bex and a lie-down we opened the pressies, scoffed all the chockies, bickies and lollies. Then we drained a few tinnies and Mum did her block after Dad and Steve had a barney and a bit of biffo.”

CUSTOMS

. Macca, Chooka and Wanger are driving to Surfers in their Torana. If they are travelling at 160 km/h while listening to Barnsey, Farnsey and Acca Dacca, how many slabs will each person consume on average between flashing a brown eye and having a slash?

. Complete the following sentences: a) If the van’s rockin’ don’t bother … b) You’re going home in the back of a … c) Fair suck of the …

. I’ve had a gutfull and I can’t be fagged. Discuss.

. Have you ever been on the giving or receiving end of a wedgie?

. Am I every going to see your face again?

MATHS

. How long is a smoko?

. What is a larger, a shit load or  a fuck tonne?

. Your mate needs you to do them a favour that’s a piece of piss  Will it take two tics, a jiffy or fuck nose?

.  If you are pushing shit up hill flat knacker and some cunt is gawking at you something shocking do you eyeball them, give em a spray or glass them?

FOOD

. Does your family regularly eat a dish involving mincemeat, cabbage, curry powder and a packet of chicken noodle soup called either chow mein, chop suey or kai see ming?

. What are the ingredients in a rissole?

. Demonstrate the correct procedure for eating a Tim Tam.

. Do you have an Aunty Myrna who is famous for her tuna mornay and other dishes involving a can of cream of celery soup?

. In any two-hour period have you ever eaten three-bean salad, a chop and two serves of pav washed down with someone else’s beer that has been nicked from a bath full of ice?

. When you go to a bring-your-own-meat Barbie, can you eat other people’s meat or are you only allowed to eat your own?

. What purple root vegetable beginning with the letter “b” is required by law to be included in a hamburger with the lot?

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CULTURE

. Do you own or have you ever owned a lawn mower, a pair of thongs, an Esky or Ugg boots?

. Is it possible to “prang a car” while doing “circle work”?

. Who would you like to crack on to? Have you already ‘copped a feel’?

. Who is the most Australian: Kevin “Bloody” Wilson, John “True Blue” Williamson, Warnie or Damo?

. If the response is ‘fuck me dead’ what has just been said?

RELATIONSHIPS

. Do you have an old homophobic relation who constantly says they are ‘buggered’?

. Would you love to have a beer with Duncan?

. Is there someone you are only mates with because they own a trailer or have a pool?

. Do you have a friend or relative who has a car in their front yard “up on blocks”? Is his name Keith and does he have a wife called Cheryl?

. Who is Ron and why are you saving it for him?

. What is the highest form of endearment, shit hanging or piss taking?

TRUE OR FALSE

. We are not here to fuck spiders.

. A half mongrel is a cross breed dog.

. Delta Goodrem is up herself.

.  It’s common to crunch durries while smashing cans and having a perv.

.  A stickybeak loves a good squiz.

. If you like someone you call them a cunt. If you don’t like them you call them a bit of a cunt.

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They say procrastination is crack for writers.  But they say a lot of things.  I don’t even know what it means, but I think it’s true.

When I started out as a writer I was working with a fabulous bloke and great Australian satirist, the late John Herovium.  We were working on something that had to be finished by Friday. “I’ll come over Wednesday morning,” I said. “No,” he replied, “ I won’t be scared enough.  Make it Thursday night.”

There is nothing more heart pumping, sphincter tightening and adrenaline producing than a deadline. Comfort is the enemy of art and fear is a great motivator, particularly if you have to pay your rego. But fear is also a great inhibitor if you have nothing to lose. Despite having creative satisfaction and that thrilling post coital feeling of getting something done to gain.

Last year I was sitting on a beach in Far North Queensland eating a packet of Chicken In A Biscuit and rereading the same paragraph for the eighth time as I watched my three little boys play Kill Me In The Face. Which was a welcome change from their usual games, Kick Chasey, Snot Wars and Hide and Spit.

An almost friend from years ago recognized me.  She told me her mum had been enjoying my  weekly cries for help in the newspaper.  ‘Mum really wants to be a writer.  She’s been talking about writing her memoirs for years.  She has amazing stories. She’s 77.  Have you got any advice for her?”

“Yes,” I said. “Tell her to do the writing before she folds the washing.  Do the writing before the ironing.  Do the writing before getting dressed, having a shower or eating breakfast. Do the writing first.  Because there is always something you can be doing instead of writing.”

More than being paid for writing or even seeing your work published getting the writing done and winning the battle with procrastination is the biggest triumph. The sad thing is that it’s usually at three in the morning two weeks after the deadline. Basking in the post coital felling of Getting Something Finished you find yourself thinking, “I love doing this. Why do I leave it ‘till the last minute?  I waste all that time feeling guilty and beating myself up about pulling my finger out to do something I love.” It’s not about praise, prizes being published or paid. It’s about proving. Proving to yourself you can do it. And you did. There is no better feeling.

We want to write. We do. It’s just scary and hard work.  And usually disappointing.  Our writing is rarely as good as we want it to be.  My writing life spans 18 years and in that time there have only been a handful of things I’ve written that I’m happy with. The rest make me cringe. But it’s the possibility that we may blow our own minds that propels us. We’re junkies hanging out for a hit.

There are people who write and there are writers.  Writers have to write.  It’s like having a shit.  If you’re a writer who isn’t writing it wells up inside and makes you sick.  Robert Hughes summed it up for me.  “I feel guilty when I’m not writing and when I’m writing I feel guilty I’m not writing well enough.” I’m worse.  I’m promiscuous.  A writing slut. When I’m writing I fantasize about writing something else.  My mate Lou is a writer.  She says, do stuff for love, do stuff for money, do nothing for neither.  Sometimes it feels like an intoxicating one night stand.  Other times I feels as if I’m turning tricks.  $100 an hour, no kissing. The rest of the time I’m just looking for love.

Ten things no one tells you about writing.

20 things I tell myself when I write. 

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Dear Dad,

I’d like to take back the Father’s Day gift you received in 1968.

I was born on Father’s Day September 1st 1968. It appeared I was your Father’s Day present. I wasn’t. You did not deserve me.  You did not deserve any of us. You were not a good man. You were not a good father. It was deeply unfair you were given so much and we had so much taken away.

You died a few years ago. I don’t know what year nor do I know the date. I was working when I received the text from my sister ‘The cunt’s dead’. I simply glanced at it and continued to address the writing masterclass I was running. I felt happy, relieved, liberated, at peace.

You were a horrible man. A messer. A narcissist. I am glad you’re dead. I never let you meet my kids because you were not worthy of them. I didn’t go to you funeral. Every Father’s Day without you is a celebration for me.

I liberated myself from you and the myth of the father I should have had decades ago.

Father’s day is hard and complicated for many people. And on that day those people are in my thoughts.

Everyday I pay tribute to the amazing parents I see around me. Parents who are doing their very best despite being poorly parented or having challenging children.

I cheer for the children who are doing incredible things and living amazing lives despite being poorly parented by horrible people.

Someone said to me yesterday ‘Your boys are great. You’ve done a great job’. I said ‘I take no credit. They are who they are. They got lucky to be born who they are.’

She tried to argue with me a little. I said, ‘You and I both know amazing parents with horrible kids and horrible parents with amazing kids. As a parent I decided to have children. I live up to my own idea of what that commitment and responsibility is. How they turn out they turn out. I just need to know I have done my best. Lived up to my standards. The rest is up to them.’

Who or what your parents are is no reflection on who you are.
Who or what your children are is no reflection on who you are.

Loving someone for how they make you feel or what they do for you is one thing. Loving someone for who they are is something very different.

Being loved for how you make someone feel or what you do for someone is one thing. Being loved for who you are is something very different.

Clinging to the idea of the perfect Disney father is very damaging. For everyone. But particularly for those people who experienced abusive relationships. Trying to round an abusive or dysfunctional relationship up to normal creates cognitive dissonance, damage and sets a terrible example of what love is, what relationships are and what ‘normal’ looks like.

I raise a glass to all the humans out there doing their best.

I see you and I thank you. You are making a difference to people who are not even born yet. How do I know that? Because I was born, I was born on Father’s Day.

But it was also my birthday.

I choose to celebrate that.

Love conquers all x

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Tonight is my work office Christmas party and seeing as though I’m my own boss I’m going to tell myself to get fucked, photocopy my arse and leave it on my own desk and wake up in my own bed screaming ‘I SLEPT WITH MY BOSS!

The office Christmas party is officially an opportunity to boost morale and reward workers, but it’s generally the one night of the year it’s possible to tear your life a new one.

If you’re lucky, it’ll be an all-night backstab, but it’s more likely to be an evening spent engaged in the conversational equivalent of pulling teeth with people who perform the miracle of making your own family seem fun, warm and attractive. Despite what they say, ”getting to know each other” is not a good idea. See anyone you’re related to or involved in a long-term relationship with for details.

Because of this, a certain amount of social lubricant is involved. If you find yourself thinking, “I haven’t been this drunk for ages!” you should have left three Bacardi Breezers and eight highly offensive remarks ago. Chances are you’ll wake the next morning in a pool of your own self-hatred, paranoia and body fluids. If you can’t remember what happened, the photos uploaded to the website When Good Employees Go Bad should fill the gaps. Or Jim from marketing lying next to you wearing nothing but a lanyard may be able to help.

Some words of wisdom and warning on the office Christmas party. The three main dangers are getting drunk, committing career suicide and cracking on to workmates. The fourth is all the above. It’s a trifecta that nobody wins.

The people who leave early are the ones you should hang out with (and no, they don’t have another party, a migraine or a babysitter to relieve. They just have a life). But the ones keen to ”kick on” to the point of ”back to my place for a spliff and some home brew after the casino and karaoke” are the ones you will end up hanging out with. You. Have. Been. Warned.

Stay away from men in novelty ties, women in antlers and body glitter or anyone who has recently separated. Trust me.

“I used to think you were a wanker” is not a good conversation starter. Nor is, “If I was running the place” or “Sorry if I’m getting a bit rapey”. Particularly if you’re talking to your boss. Or her husband.

When photocopying your arse, it’s dishonest to use the reduce feature. And make sure it’s the photocopier – not the microwave. Best if all appliances, including the shredder and the sandwich maker are unplugged before the festivities begin.

”Kris Kringle” is German for ”shit present”.

If you know someone won’t be back next year but they don’t, DON’T tell them. Instead say: ”Don’t spend too much on presents,” “Make the most of your holiday” and ”Whatever happens, good luck with next year!” Don’t say, “Has Rod spoken to you yet?”

If you find people are saying to you, ”Don’t spend too much on presents,” “Make the most of your holiday,” ”Whatever happens, good luck with next year!” or “Has Rod spoken to you yet?” drink as much as you want and steal as much as you can.

Sitting the office atheist and the resident hardcore Christian together will be a welcome distraction from the office loser who’s elfed himself doing the Macarena three hours in.

Partners – yes or no? No. Lie if you have to.

Play boredom bingo. If in any one conversation you get asked, “So did you get here all right?” “What are you doing over Christmas?” and “You going away at all?” pull your shirt over your head and run round the room yelling, “Bingo! Bingo!”

And finally, a word to bosses: Don’t come. If you do, don’t make a speech. If you make a speech, make it short and funny or slurry and offensive. So not only can we take the piss when you go but so you give us the gift of making our behaviour seem tame by comparison. And so you know, nothing says ”job well done” and ”we appreciate you” like money. We don’t want a hamper. We want money.

Rule of thumb: ladies – never get your tits out. And fellas – cougars by night, dogs in the morning.

What happens at the Christmas Party should stay at the Christmas party.  But generally it doesn’t.

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Just stop it okay? Listen to me. Christmas is fine as long as you take the position that it’s going to be shit. The motto should be Christmas! The perfect time to spend with family. Just not your own family.

And that’s the true beauty of Christmas. Be warm in the knowledge that as much as you’re dreading spending Christmas with someone, there’s someone out there dreading spending it with you! Yes, you! As you’re shuffling, long faced, hunched shoulders and full of oppressed rage around some soulless multiplex trying to work out what you can buy that looks more expensive than it is for someone you loathe, there’s someone picking through a discontinued, soiled or damaged table doing the same for you! Nothing says “I don’t like you or have any idea who you are but lack the creativity and courage to come up with an alternative” like a regifted box of broken Danish shortbread past its use by date, a calendar or a sports towel. Whatever that is. I think it’s a towel of hate.

Last minute Christmas idea? Euthanise yourself!

What makes Christmas jar so much is all the images of the perfect family, which confront the experience we have of our own families. The relentless assault of commercials of relations who appear genuinely joyful to see each other, clean houses and domestic bliss can’t help but make us come to the conclusion that we’re shit.

You’re not alone if your response to these images is “That’s not how it is at our place. By 2pm, Mum’s packing the dishwasher – with tears pouring down her face after receiving six books she already has. Dad’s collapsed in the Jason Recliner rocker wearing a paper crown after a pissing competition with Uncle Neville, who’s stormed off with his new Asian wife. Mum’s sister Nancy found texts on dad’s phone from some woman called Amber. Mum’s her other sister Rehab Shirley just called their 86 year old mother a cunt. Which she is. The sisters-in-law are all secretly texting each other about the quality of the desserts and the amount spent on gifts after they’ve taken snaps of them and posted them on eBay. The brothers are playing out their sibling rivalry and mummy issues with backyard cricket. “Over the fence is out. And why were you breastfed longer than me? Sorry, didn’t mean to knee your son in the nuts.” The brother-in -laws are huddled out near the shed, conflicted about all agreeing their 12 year niece is hot. Then they realize one of them is her father.” [ED: Note to self – must attend Deveny family Christmas before I die]

It’s worthwhile reminding ourselves that the happy families force fed to us by the media are actors. No one would do that for free. Those people who say, “I love Christmas!” You know what that makes me think? How shit the rest of their life must be.

But the images do make us think, “We must be the only family riddled with passive aggression, corrosion, disappointment, secrets and resentment.” Guess what? Good news! We’re all dysfunctional! And the more functional a family appears, the more dysfunctional they are! No, I’m not bitter. I am happy and released in the truth. Life is so much easier with realistic expectations. Come on board the sanity boat, there’s plenty of room. And heaps of grog.

I have for many years said having children and a vagina means December is spent being a slave and an emotional potty for most of the month. Yes that’s right. Christmas, turning back feminism 150 years.

(WARNING SALIENT POINT COMING. DON’T WORRY. IT’S ONLY A PARAGRAPH – THAT’S LIKE FOUR TWEETS – THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A FREE COLUMN)

The amount of unpaid labor done by women at this time of year is astonishing. The blokes may pick up the ice, mow the lawn and carve the ham but I challenge you to look around on Christmas day and seriously work out how much of the food, thought, purchasing, organizing, cleaning, wrapping and social lubricant is provided by the women. Take away the woman’s effort and then see what you’re left with. No wonder they all chuck barneys, do their block and double their medication. That’s my excuse anyway.

(THERE ENDETH THE PILL IN THE DOG FOOD)

Apropos Santa. Listen, he’s real, just ask my kids. As if I’d spend all that money and effort buying presents for my ungrateful whinging little maggots.

Small segueway here – what’s the difference between Santa and Tiger Woods? Santa stops after three hos.

The child psychology funbusters out there are now telling us parents that we should tell kids ‘the truth about Santa’ That’s right. According to them it’s ‘bad’ to ‘lie’ to our ‘children.’ Lying to our children? Back off. Parents do it all the time. It’s the only fun we have.

For example:

– “Mummy and Daddy love each other.” Crap.

– “The best presents are the made ones.” Wrong. The best presents are the large expensive ones that your father would have bought me if he wasn’t a bludging useless loser addicted to porn.

– “I love you kids all the same.” Not true. I’m a mother. I know. We have favorites. Get over it. And you know who my favorite is? The kid next door because he’s cute, he doesn’t have nits and he doesn’t call me a fat maggot.

– “Uncle Randy jumps out the window when Daddy comes home because he’s a kangaroo.” Not true. He jumps out of the window because he’s a root rat.

– “If the wind changes you’ll stay like that.” That is actually true. But there is no need to worry. You’re ugly anyway.

– “The gelati van plays the music when it runs our of ice cream.” Lie. Truth? Mummy is a mean tightarse who hates kids. Especially her own.

The truth about Santa? Santa is an anagram of Satan. Oh yeah, and if you play Rudolf The Red Nose Reindeer, it basically says “Satan is Lord, Satan is Lord.” It sounds exactly like Nickelback.

Merry Christmas

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A time for kids? Rubbish. They’re all just spoilt brats who want more crap.

CHRISTMAS? Kill me now. Season to be jolly? Not this little black duck. Wish I was Jewish. Or in jail. Or dead. I s’pose it could be worse. Come to think of it, no it couldn’t.

But seriously, you know what I want for Christmas? To be a kid or a bloke. Having children and a vagina basically means being a slave and an emotional potty for the last two weeks of December. If the silly season had a motto, it should be: Christmas: It’s the Reason Alcohol was Invented. Or Christmas: Turning Back Feminism 150 Years.

Don’t get me wrong, I love sitting around a table with family and slagging off relatives as soon as they leave. And I do enjoy giving people gifts. What I don’t like is the obligation of it all. Call me Aunty Funbuster but I just don’t find anything more depressing than dragging myself around the shops to buy crap for people who already have everything and are still miserable.

Surrounded by other people dragging themselves around the shops to buy crap for people who already have everything and are still miserable. But I do like to make people happy. Which is why I’ll be pulling a migraine this year and spending Christmas heavily sedated in a darkened room so my family can spend the entire day slagging me off.

‘Tis the season to strap on the fake smile and hang out with relations who say “we should see each other more often” despite the fact that they don’t get the hint they’ve been saying the same thing for 30 years and it is still not happening. In the social potpourri of passive/aggressive aunts, overbearing uncles, hypochondriac grandfathers and the bitter and twisted cousins who have recently divorced that bitch/that bastard, people in relationships are always guaranteed that one magical moment on Christmas Day. That moment you realise that your family gives your partner the shits even more than you do.

As far as the, “it’s for the kiddies” mantra. Stuff ’em. Kids? Bunch of spoilt brats. They’ve got rooms bursting with toys that they never play with, parents who don’t beat them and all they do is whinge. They need a bloody good war if you ask me. Which you didn’t, but that’s never stopped me before.

If we receive one more card with a picture of people’s kids’ faces in the baubles hanging on the Christmas tree, I will be forced to set myself alight in protest. Don’t try me, because I am more mental than Mark Latham and I will do it.

I must admit we have sent out a few Christmas cards in the past. Once we frocked up as Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus and had our photo taken with Santa at Northland. In another we dressed our 10-month-old half-Italian son up as a concreter, complete with hanky tied at each corner on his head, a blue tradie’s singlet, a moustache and bling. Inside was the greeting “Behold! The Son Of Wog!”

But spare me the nauseating circulars. The sight of a typed A4 page dropping out of a card fills me with fear. Someone had the brilliant suggestion that all these smug, loving-yourselves-stupid letters should be uploaded for our deconstructing pleasure at www.mykidsarebetterthanyours.blogspot.com.

“Harry got an A for his grade five violin exam, which is not surprising considering he’s a musical prodigy in the same league as Mozart. He’s been placed in the selected entry stream of the exclusive school he has been awarded a full scholarship to. He’s now the world chess champion despite spending last year travelling the world representing Australia in marathon running and debating. It’s hard to believe that he’s turning six next year!”

“Amelia has taken the recent independent assessment that she is highly gifted characteristically in her stride. She’s recently finished writing, producing, directing and starring in her third feature film for the year. She is also the Secretary-General of the United Nations, the president of MENSA, and she recently won the Nobel prize for literature with her stunning post-colonial deconstruction of the image of indigenous women from a Jungian perspective. She has been named one in the Top Ten Most Influential Three-Year-Olds in the world and she’s now out of night nappies!”

Pardon me while I spew. I don’t care. None of us do. And we all laugh at you. You haven’t seen us all year because we hate you. I want to send back an email: “My kids? One’s stupid, one’s ugly, one’s violent and they all have worms.”

Three days to go. But it’s not all gloom and doom, I just try to look on the bright side. Maybe I’ll be struck down with a brain-eating virus and end up in a coma. Here’s hoping.

*****

Perfect gift idea Gunnas Writing Masterclass. Awesome people, magnificent people, top day, beginners welcome. All here. 

I hate Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my friends and family (individual results may vary), am delighted to cook for them or buy them things they need or desire and a simple glance at my reader’s physique will assure you I love to eat. It’s just the obligation and expectation that annoys me.

I particularly struggle with the present buying. I also struggle with the fact women do everything and if they didn’t there would be nothing organised, no plans, shopping not done, there would be no food on the table or presents under the tree but that, my friend is another column.

We are white middle class people who have everything we need. When my three boys were little the aftermath of unwrapping all their Christmas presents ( I am one of five children ) looked like a Malaysian rubbish heap. The paper, the packaging, the plastic choking hazards, the things with bits that will be lost tomorrow, trampled underfoot, eaten by the dog or sucked up the vacuum cleaner made me taste a little bit of sick in my mouth.

The  just ticking stuff off the list and buying the cheapest gift possible for people who don’t need or want for anything and it goes against everything I believe in.

Sure the boys loved the presents, but not all of them and not forever. The things they loved best were often not the gifts that were the big Christmas morning hits but the pyjamas, books and stuff like a new lunchbox. You know what I loved? Chucking the broken ones out and sending the unloved and unused ones off to new homes.

We spend so much of our lives trying to make ends meet and being environmentally friendly yet the week before Christmas we max out our credit cards on a sack of junk made from unsustainable products in unfair conditions in the developing world.

It would be ace if we could all spend a heap of money on sustainable gifts for everyone but the chances are you, like me, are not independently wealthy.

Every time you spend a dollar you are voting on how your want the world to be. Buy from local, independent, feminist businesses. Vouchers from a restaurant, bookshop, masseur or bath house, florist, clothes shop, nursery, hairdresser, or sport store are excellent. How about a bit of pampering with a mani pedi or a float in a floatation tank?   This will not only be a gift for your loved one but also for the local business. I was at our local farmers market the other day and the place was chockers with fab gifts; gourmet dark chocolate and orange Christmas puds, handmade organic fudge, boutique soap and locally brewed cider with no preservatives!

Everyone eats, everyone drinks! Buy them some consumables! Gourmet hampers are awesome but you can make your own with all your favourite things. If you can’t stretch to a hamper, some chocolate, sweets, cheese and crackers, tea or alcohol will work. You can also stock them up on something they use all the time. What brand of soap, coffee or shaving cream do they use? Get ‘em a six pack!

Better still, buy them a year’s worth of toilet paper. No one likes carting toilet paper home. And we do it almost every week. That family with babies, elderly relative or curmudgeon who says ‘I don’t need anything’ would love a big slab of 24 rolls! Imagine how much less they would have to lug home from the supermarket! Particularly when it helps build toilets in the developing world.

Guitar lessons, boot camp, a house spring clean, an oven clean, golf lessons, a session with a personal trainer, a car clean, window clean, a facial, a cooking course, a garden spruced up, movie tickets, theatre tickets, Melbourne International Comedy Festival tickets, a trip in a hot air balloon! Buy experiences! Buy your loved one a ticket or voucher to my Gunnas Writing Masterclass (dates here).  I developed the class precisely for Christmas. So people could give an unforgettable carbon neutral gift that supported the arts and local businesses! I pay the venue, food, graphic designer and now other sessional teachers so when you purchase a ticket you are supporting a bunch of other local independent businesses. Including the places I purchase my frocks.

Donations. These are my favourite gifts ever. And the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre and Domestic Violence Victoria my charity of choice. If you want to give many charity organisations have gift catalogues and some even make cards you can gift telling the recipient you have purchased a goat, vaccinations, a toilet or a well for some of our brothers and sisters in developing countries.

Plants, framed photos and good quality towels are always well received. When in doubt, give money. Especially to kids.

Big family? Presents are for kids. Kris Kringle for the grown ups. We do a $50 limit at ours. Everyone posts their list online, you get something you want and you buy one present instead of 20.

Finally, if you do have to spend money on someone who is hard to buy for (or hates everything) buy something not only for someone you love but FROM someone you love. I bet you have people around you who do things, make things or teach things who you would love to buy from and give money too. So even if the present isn’t a hit, you have given your business to someone you love to spend money with. It’ll make their Christmas. I guarantee it.

Christmas Eve. Carols By Candlelight. Mum’s Chucking Her Annual Christmas Eve Wobbly

Office Party Christmas Tips From Dev