Did you ever just not feeling like showering before you run out for a quick errand?
Especially if you are just running to Wal-Mart.
Did you ever just feel like going on a late night snack run in your jammies?
With your hair all sticking up on one side and matted down from the couch pillows on the other.
Did you ever ask your husband, while standing over the cakes display, in your jammies, with your hair all jacked up, and chipped toe nail polish prominently displayed in your self-bedazzled flip flops, if you are embarrassing him?
And did he ever reply, “No, I’ll just tell people you’re my retarded little sister.” ?
Did that ever happen to you?
December 8, 2011
My first year out of my mother’s house, my roommate and I, broke from paying the rent on our basement apartment near the Ohio State University, decorated our stolen tree with airplane sized liquor bottles. (She was older than me and could drink stuff a little harder than Little Kings.)
This Christmas my husband and I drank wine from our recent Napa trip while decorating our blue and green themed tree. This is something I would like to do every year, uh, make that every Saturday night. (Drinking wine from Napa that is; not putting up a tree.)
However, there was a wee bit of contention over the ball distribution. My husband thinks he’s an expert on balls, while I am quite certain that I have had a lot more experience handling them than he. Yes he knows that they have to be handled with care; especially the older ones that have been in the family awhile, but it takes a woman’s touch to properly place the balls. After all one does not want one’s balls banging together and getting all scratched up.
But I digress.
While I theme the trees, he enjoys giving themed gifts. I must admit I have been the benefactor of his thoughtful bundles of packages. One of my favorite years was the diamond themed Christmas of 2008. Thank you baby, hope you liked your tie.
He has also shared with me his holiday tradition of watching A Christmas Story, and it has now become our tradition. It’s the story of a little boy who wants his own Red Rider BB Gun, but his mother fears he will shoot out his eye.
After our last visit to my father-in-law’s where I tired of shooting the air rifle and proceeded to totally destroy an innocent plastic target by blasting it from about twenty feet with a twelve gauge shotgun that left a hell of a bruise on my body, I now have a desire for my own pump action gun.
Will Santa bring me diamonds or guns this Christmas? Who is to say, for I feel I only deserve coal. Perhaps I would shoot my eye out, although it’s more likely I’d dislocate a shoulder, but making dust out of clay pigeons sure sounds fun.
Maybe we could even use the old ornaments that have lost their luster for targets. Hurray for our new holiday traditions; drinking fine wine, erecting our tree and shooting balls. Merry Christmas everyone.