Holiday Fun

After the stress of Thanksgiving, et al, I immediately contracted the plague. Thinking that I would eventually revive by swallowing every over-the-counter medication at my disposal, I finally realized that I was slowly drowning. I have to point out that I have a loathing (bordering on phobia) of going to the doctor, so after seven days of misery, sitting bolt upright on the sofa all night attempting to breathe, and slowly eroding the skin off of the middle portion of my face, accompanied by a lab that jumped every time I coughed, I relented. I opted for one of those nearby family clinics because I simply didn’t have the wherewithal to drive across town to my regular physician. As I sat blowing my nose on toilet paper pilfered from the clinic restroom and listening to the Muppets singing about figgy pudding, I couldn’t help but wonder, where does almost every doctor’s office find those hideous, hard plastic Santas that are lighted from within?

It turns out that a microbe had so infected my sinuses that the offending liquids were trapped inside my head, which explains why even my teeth were tortured. So desperate that I agreed to take antibiotics (another phobia) I spent the next five days alone with two dogs, husband traveling, son on a road trip—doing the really sad, old-lady version of Home Alone and single-handedly keeping the tissue industry in the black. I haven’t eaten much over this time—primarily diet cokes and dark chocolate M & M’s, so today I had to venture into the world into the midst of the . . . others . . . for some supplies. This is difficult for me under the best of circumstances.

My first trip was to a vet to pick up some specialized dog food, which must have gold as one of its ingredients, for my pug. My regular vet was out of the food and referred me to this location. At the door a very, very large and unleashed German shepherd greeted me. As I paid for the food, the dog proceeded to probe me in places with its nose that I found most disagreeable but I feared that a protest might cost me a hand, so I just moved in rhythm with the music. Next, I decided to head up the expressway to a rather rural location of Wal Mart. I don’t frequent the store often but Jack had found a particular Levis Strauss work shirt there and wished for another for Christmas. Anyway, I had to park at the very end of a football-sized parking lot replete with some very frightening types zooming in and out in trucks with excessively large wheels. I took maybe half a dozen steps away from my car when a wizened little woman sitting on a handicapped scooter next to her automobile, calls out to me, “Will you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” I replied.

“Will you drive this scooter back into the Wal Mart?”

YAAAANG! I realize I must have looked like a deer in the headlights, because changing her diaper or driving her home would have been a more feasible request. Not only was my head full of cold medicine but the vision flashed through my head: me putt-putting through this maze of honking rednecks like a game of frogger, onto the handicapped ramp, and into Wal Mart. Nothing good could possibly come of this.

“Um, I don’t know how to drive one of those.”

“I’ll teach ya.”

Oh yes, handicapped scooter lessons in the Wal Mart parking lot—something I’ve always envisioned myself doing. The story would have been funnier or more tragic, but reason—or divine intervention--prevailed. In one of my few clear moments I promised her to go into the store and ask an employee to retrieve the scooter, which I did. It took a while but I finally found a young, unenthusiastic man who agreed to do the job.

Now to begin shopping. As I stood contemplating an assortment of Christmas bows, another woman on a handicapped scooter stopped next to me and said, “Can you help me?” Hmmm. Is it something about my face? And no, I was not dressed in anything similar to a Wal Mart uniform. Luckily she only wanted me to help her find three small jewelry boxes so that she could put the necklaces in them that she had found on sale at Sears for only $20 a piece for her “three mamas--her real mama, her step mama, and her mama-in-law.” Okaay, easy enough. That one only took me about twenty minutes. Next?

Christmas Cheer

My cousin, Diana, came up for a short visit this weekend. In retrospect, it’s a good thing that the visit was short because we tend to view get-togethers as a mandate to replace our bodily fluids with wine, especially during the holidays. We tried three times to watch a movie called Dangerous Beauty (which I had seen before) about a famous Venetian courtesan and poet. The first night after much wine and some dine, I watched over half of it, but Diana fell asleep on the sofa, so the next night (under the same circumstances--hair of the dog) we tried again. This time I jostled her a few times and said, “This is an important part.” She mumbled that she was watching, but her eyes were closed which made that possibility unlikely, so I turned it off. The next morning I told my sleeping beauty cousin that I could now get a part in the stage play version of the movie because I had watched it enough to memorize the lines. She said, “Can we watch the rest of it this morning?”

“Okay,” I said. “Can you remember where you were when we turned it off?” (I meant at which point in the movie.)

“Yes,” she replied. “I was on the sofa.”

Christmas Memories:)

We were lucky kids, comparatively. My parents didn’t have much money, but don’t get me wrong, everything’s relative. However, no matter how you live, certain things set your mind as to who you are and what you’re worth. One year my older sister and I both got bikes for Christmas. My parents didn’t have a lot of money but we both got bikes! That would have been great except for one thing. My dad took my sister under his arm and pointed out the writing on the side of her bicycle. “That says Husky,” he said, as he ran his finger under the letters. “That’s the best bicycle you can get.” I suppose back then that this was the truth. I looked at my bike and it didn’t say Husky.

On another Christmas this same sister received the most beautiful bride doll I had ever seen. I had a doll that looked like Chucky’s bride. I didn’t say a word, but years later we were viewing those old, grainy home movies and I said, “There’s Lynn’s beautiful bride doll and that doll of mine with one eye the size of a quarter and the other the size of a dime, and hair sticking out in every direction.” My parents cracked up. “Dad won that thing at a fair the week before Christmas,” Mom said.

Oh well. Thanks a mil.