My holidays are not like old black and white films where the family sits around the piano belting out carols. Trust me. During my 12 days of Christmas, there are no choreographed musicals with dancing and prancing near a snowy window. Well, there was that one time, but this year it has been more humorous than dreamy.
On the first day of Christmas (my first day, anyway), my true love gave to me a pointer finger shaking in my face as he drove me to the MEA Clinic. I fell down the stairs with two Shih-Tzus in my arms and wore a boot on my ankle for almost two weeks, you see. The Shih-Tzus were unharmed.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a trip to the beach where I had a joyous December getaway (until I discovered my swimsuit didn’t fit), and a finger shaking in my face, still not quite over the fall apparently, as if I planned it.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a dismally small budget with which to decorate my trees (and, yes, I did say trees), sand between my toes, and a good shake of his finger since I have never paid much attention to budgets.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a brand new toaster so that going forward I will never burn the toast, in theory, that Christmas tree budget I ignored, sand between my toes, and the shaking of his fist, mostly, I dare say, over the Target charges on our credit card.
It was on the fifth day of Christmas that my true love gave to me five lemon martinis of which I shared two with him and stopped myself at three, my toaster with a snazzy button for bagels even, the rolling of his eyes over my martini headache, and you know the rest.
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a dozen peppermint red velvet cupcakes, even though I was on a diet. When the seventh day of Christmas came, my true love gave to me a holiday to-do list which grows longer by the minute.
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a lovely picnic in Natchez, and I must look for that to-do list or risk another finger shaking in my face.
On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me nine reasons to slow down the minivan, at least six of them quite valid. By the tenth and eleventh days of Christmas, respectively, my true love gave to me a tutorial on operating the new dishwasher and the new washing machine. No doubt I will get the detergent in my stocking.
Finally, on the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a warm hug to commemorate my exit from the boot, which takes us all the way back to day one. Good news. I have found my to-do list, but that does not mean I will actually do it. Don’t tell my true love.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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