This blog is interrupted by the steady advent of DECEMBER 25 which has yanked me out of my cozy memories of the fun that is high school and yearbooks and reunions, including that reunion I went to with my dress on backwards by mistake. I didn’t realize I had done so until six months had passed.( “Oh wait!” I thought trying it on again the following summer. “The plunging V doesn’t go in the front? It isn’t the shoulder blades that those two pointy pockets in the back were designed to make room for?”) I am yanked away from these pleasant reveries by the need to start pushing uphill the rock that is Christmas, so that our family won’t be the only people on the street trying to string up holiday lights 24 hours before the big night, when Santa harnesses those tony rain-DEER and starts makin’ his rounds. (And please note that that’s how you say it, people: When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-DEER. )
Anyway here’s the first casualty: the angel who normally occupies that proctological seat atop the Christmas tree. She had too much grog at the holiday party and fell and broke her ankle. I ran an IV and put her in the little hospital bed I keep especially around for small accident victims. There’s a little blood from the fall and as you can see she’s been crying, mostly because she knows very well that that Angel We Have Heard on High is mocking her plight with the violin playing.
Those angels: no sympathy.
Catch you tomorrow if I can find my way back out of the Mall.