Stupid Holiday Story #2

How do you survive Christmas? You drink a lot. And drink a lot, right. Drink a lot and drink a lot. -Christina Applegate


I am a true believer in Murphy’s Law. You know the one I’m talking about, right? That which can go wrong...? I find that this slightly pessimistic footnote stuck neatly at the bottom of all of my optimism protects me from a huge truckload of disappointment in most situations.

Exhibit A: my daughter is sick during our first week of vacation. It started with a cough last week, and I began warning relatives to keep their distance from her lips. Saturday night, it spiked into a fever, and I spent all night popping up and down from my bed to feel her forehead, sure that the only thing that stood in the way of a febrile seizure was my motherly persistence.

Exhibit B: I am sick during our first week of vacation. My warning to others to stay away from her lips certainly couldn’t apply to me, so I’m thinking of buying stock in Kleenex this week. Or at least buying a bucketful of Cover Girl concealor so that when we sing "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer" on Christmas Eve, everyone’s not looking at me.

Exhibit C: It snowed in Colorado, all weekend down in the Springs. It was light, floaty, usually see it at the mall around Santa’s house kind of snow. We did take advantage of the beautiful sight by sipping tea, listening to Christmas music, and making snowflakes yesterday. Today, I went out to do the final shovel of the walk, and found that shoveling was futile. It wisped right off the shovel and back onto the sidewalk, so I got my broom instead. I swept with zeal. The appraiser is coming at 11:00 to assess my house for the refinance, so all of my nervousness and frustration went into making sure that the sidewalk was clear of even the smallest hint of snow.

No snow. Bad snow. Go away, snow.

After doing the front walk, I had some energy left, so I trudged around to the back of the house to sweep off the back deck. I flisked and swooshed with full force, feeling very productive until my broom hit the corner of one of the table benches. It caught, and stopped in mid motion, but my muscles continued their full forward attack. As a result, the broom handle snapped back against my face, right smack in the corner of my right eye. After the cartoon stars and birds cleared, and I could remember where I was, two thoughts occurred to me. Thought #1: I hope none of the neighbors saw that…definite loss of cool points (after the light fiasco of last weekend, I doubt I had any to begin with). Thought #2: I have just given myself a black eye.

I reached my finger up to touch the spot where all of my angsty energy now lay in reddening proof. A bump was forming, nice and firmly in the shape of a little caterpillar. Going inside, I unbundled myself and headed straight for the bathroom mirror. The bump is not so much on my eye, but creeping down from the dead corner of it. It has turned a purplish, greenish, grayish color, and with its unfortunate location, I do not get to even look contender-tough. I look instead like a deranged, cracked-out prostitute who never learned how to apply eye makeup. If I had any social plans that didn’t involve direct family members who will be kind enough to stop laughing after the first ten minutes, they just flushed themselves neatly down the toilette.
I am currently sitting at the only safe spot in the house. The bathrooms could use a quick wipe, I need to make some phone calls, and I really should finish putting away the laundry that is sitting on my bed. But after this morning, I’m a little afraid to move.

My daughter is asking Santa for a flute, and a candy cane, and the little squishy ball that her mother broke last year. I’m thinking I might need to write my own letter out of simple desperation. “Hey, Santa, on top of a washing machine, a computer, and a social life that isn’t a bad independent film, how about a little coordination?”

Six more days until Christmas. Someone please save me from myself.