Last year, I had the worst Christmas ever. No kidding, it was the worst that I can remember. Mr. Vagabond was sour, and eventually I turned sour as well. We didn't even give each other presents! The whole thing was a great beg *meh.* Because I didn't want a repeat, I emailed him in October with details about how this year we'd do Christmas my way.
My way includes no "I don't care one way or the other" comments about a Christmas tree, and there'd also be no Bah Humbugs when I played Christmas music. He replied to my email quickly. The first line said, "It isn't even Halloween yet!" Afterward, he said, "I am suddenly plum full up with Christmas spirit… because I know what's good for me." I think there was a "Yes ma'am" in there somewhere, as well.
So I was all set to deck the halls and sing Jingle Bells, bake Christmas goodies and essentially have a rockin' Christmas this year.
And then it happened.
I developed a thing. We shall only refer to this thing as a thing, because really and truly that is all you wanna know. I had to have minor, outpatient surgery on this thing. The minor part ended abruptly when after five attempts at local anesthesia, everyone in three counties understood that anesthesia wasn't going to work. Because he was out of town, like he usually is, and I drove myself, like I usually do, there was no hope for stronger meds. My solution was to alternate between blood-curdling screams and trying in vain to bite the pillow on the doctor's table in half while she basically cut off my leg with a dull chainsaw. Really.
Ok, not really. She didn't cut off my leg. The dull chainsaw part remains to be determined since that's exactly what it felt like.
After two hours of the fun and games, I was sent home with a prescription for mind-altering pain meds and antibiotics, both of which consumed the lining of my stomach. More fun. I was broken on the inside and the outside.
So there I was, my hubby plum full up with Christmas spirit, and me whining on the couch and unable to even set up the tree. The clock was ticking.
After about a week, I did manage to get Fred set up and decked out. You remember Fred, my dependable little 4-footer. I added more decorations throughout the house and took pictures in between snoring episodes on the couch. Mr. V. came home and we had a reasonably nice Christmas, even though I was still barely ambulatory.
The day after Christmas, he had a dr. appointment of his own. Because I am super awesome, I went with him. It only took about five minutes in the waiting room to remember that doctors' waiting rooms in wintertime are no place for any healthy human being to be. And yet there we were, breathing in every germ-laden sneeze and cough inside that stylishly decorated room.
They should really issue HazMat suits to everyone who walks through the door.
Lying in bed approximately 48 hours later, I sneezed. I rarely sneeze, so this was noteworthy. When I sneezed again, I felt his eyes bearing down on the side of my head. I pretended not to notice. And then I coughed. And then I pulled the covers over my head and demanded, "I AM NOT SICK!"
"You'd better not be."
He's such a sweetie. Ha.
So here we are on December 30, trading swallows from the NyQuil bottle and chasing them with Motrin. We have three flavors of cough drops and enough chicken soup in the house to feed a small country.
I still won't accept responsibility for bringing the plague into the house. If I did catch it first, that's only because I was a goodly wife and accompanied him to the doctor. I do think I need to reassess my Christmas plans for next year, though. Christmas My Way doesn't seem to be anything like what I'd hoped.
I hope your holidays have been much kinder to you!
(It's worse than I thought. The cat just sneezed, too!)