It’s November, and all I hear is “The Holidays Are Upon Us!” And I break out in a sweat.
Say “holidays” to most people and they immediately drift into sweet and fuzzy memories. Say “holidays” to me, and I feel major organs start to shut down.
Our most immediate holiday falls on the 27th of this month, Thanksgiving. I like the food part of this one and the fact that I don’t have to pick out gifts for anyone. But as a non-cook I face the yearly terror of someone calling and saying they’re coming to my house for THANKSGIVING DINNER!
That has happened before, and it turned into a nightmare of trips to Walmart and Piggly Wiggly, prepping, cleaning the house, forgetting to thaw the turkey, burning stuff for days, then cleaning up and jamming left-overs into the fridge for hours before I could sit down and rest.
And just as I did, someone (who had been sleeping off the calories all afternoon) would suggest, “Isn’t it about time for supper?”
Nope. My plan is to slip out of town with my husband to a restaurant somewhere that thaws the turkey, cooks it, serves it and cleans it up.
Christmas holds its own terrors— of shopping for things when we have no idea what to get, praying the online gifts arrive, spending way too much money, having to wrap the loot, pack up our clothes, and jam it all into the car for a long trip to spend a few days with our son and his family. Then drive home in the day-after-Christmas traffic.
Then there’s Christmas. One of my early memories of Christmas is the year I asked Santa to bring me a stocking full of stuff like I had seen in my story books, you know — “the stockings were hung by the chimney with care.” At age 6, I thought, how cool to get a few extra gifts like that!
So on Christmas Eve, I told my parents I had asked Santa to bring me a stocking. My dad gave me one of his old socks to hang up.
It was short notice, but Santa apparently got my message. I rushed to the chimney the next morning to see the bulging sock, expecting to find glorious treats.
I found two light fuses, two big firecrackers, two shotgun shells and a can of sardines. What kind of Santa trick was this?? I just sat and stared at the pile of weird stuff until my dad came and put the light fuses back in the fuse box, shot off the firecrackers, put the shells back in his shotgun and ate the sardines.
Santa did put some gifts under the tree for me, but the holiday had lost its luster by that time. I began to suspect that you really couldn’t trust the fat guy in the red suit.
I haven’t had much better luck with the other holidays. All of them have been bummers at one time or another.
Valentine’s Day was always a stressor for me. As kids, we exchanged valentines at school. Should I give one to the kid who always pulled my hair? Would I get one from the boy I liked? What if I got NO valentines? I’d be ruined socially at age 8!
One Easter, I got a real rabbit in my basket. I was thrilled! I played with him all day. But the next morning when I got up, he wasn’t there. I panicked! But in a few minutes, my dad came in holding Bunny by the scruff of his neck. Dad was mad. “I am going to be late to work chasing this dumb rabbit all over the neighborhood!” he growled. “We may have to get rid of this thing!”
I boo-hooed a bit but at least I had Bunny back. For awhile, that is. Two days later he chewed through his cage again and took off, forever this time. Another holiday illusion ruined.
In Columbus, Miss., we always spent the 4th of July at Lee Park, with adults cooking and visiting with family and the kids playing. Charging around barefooted, I stepped on a broken bottle and cut my foot fairly deeply. My parents were big believers in home remedies so they found a gas station open and selling the kerosene they thought would heal the cut. They poured it on and wrapped my foot in a bandana. (Do not try this at home!) That was the end of play time for me, and July 4th, good riddance!
I don’t even like my birthday. Besides getting older, I’ve had some birthday upsets that have soured me on my “special day.”
On my 16th birthday, my boyfriend broke up with me. His best friend thought I’d feel bad about it and brought me a gift. I started dating the best friend, so it turned out okay, but I learned that birthdays could be treacherous.
As an adult, I came home from teaching on my 30th birthday to find my husband already at home. He met me at the door with a panicked look on his face. “Um, I don’t know how to handle this, but I need to tell you... I’ve bought a cake and I’ve invited a bunch of people over here for a surprise party for you, and, uh, now I don’t know what else to do! You have to help me!”
So I gave myself a birthday party and cleaned up afterward.
Please, just let me enjoy my normal days in peace. When I see a red- letter day rolling up on my calendar, I get a little queasy.
