There comes a point in every holiday season where I have a nearly overwhelming urge to declare myself ruler of the universe and do away with the whole Christmas situation. In fact, if I was running for public office, my platform would be:

  • Christmas once every four years (like the Olympics)
  • Eliminate Roman numerals (this is someone else’s wish, but I like it)
  • Each spring people should be given one random day off when the weather “turns” into spring (everyone knows when this is, because no one actually works that day… we all just gaze out the window in longing)

I can’t claim to be in high holiday spirits this year, but I’m doing okay. And I THOUGHT this was going to be an innocent week.


Wednesday I am sitting around work, doing stuff, and my text signal sounds.  It’s my mom, announcing she is coming up a day earlier than planned and she’d tell me the details later.

Okay… new plan.

A little while later I am again working when the text goes off again. This time it is my Aunt Robin. They are in town this week and we had a very vague plan to get together. She suggested some times; I texted back what would work. The next text was this: “Tara. I just fell and fractured the lower part of my femur near my replacement appliances. We are just leaving emergency. Will have to discuss with Darrel when we get home. Maybe Saturday? Will call you.”

Okay… new plan.

I got home that evening and when I talked to my mom, I learned that not only was she coming a day early, she had invited a family friend who has been having some health issues to come stay with “us”.

Okay… new plan.

I spent the rest of the day on Wednesday cleaning and trying to come up with a plan so no one unrelated to me would learn I was a bad housekeeper.

I set up the air mattress in my studio and regressed back to childhood while Mom and Julie were here. I didn’t have a bed, I couldn’t pick the temperature of the house, people kept putting stuff on the counter instead of in the cupboards.

Makes you glad to be an adult, even if you do have to pay taxes and go to work.

It’s Sunday and everyone has returned to their assigned spot in the world. I’m back in my bed. My house is nice and cold. The counter has returned to its stark state.

I’m not calling this the end of the holiday trauma, but frankly… I’m all out of plans.

Wish me luck.