The Trouble with Delays

Here's the deal.

I promised you good stuff when we got back online. I promised you regaling tales of Christmas. I promised you the oh-so tragically funny story of our holiday trip to the E.R. I promised tales of sibling manipulation.

But now, here I am, a new computer on my lap (thank you, Apple!) and I've kind of moved on already. Like holly wreaths and kitschy Santa dolls and strings of colored twinkle lights, Christmas stories have an expiration date. By the time December is over, I'm always ready to tuck them back up in the attic (or throw them out the window) and take my life back, already.

So, I would like to propose a compromise. Rather than a full blown blog post on each of the above topics, I'll tell you the short version of the best one. Then, we can all move on to other exciting topics, like world debt and my masochistic refusal to go to bed early.

Christmas at the E.R.
Every year on Christmas Eve, we get all gussied up in our nicest clothes and have a fancy dinner. Then, before opening up our new Christmas pajamas, we have a dance. Now, none of us are dancers. None of us are even close to being dancers. It's sort of an occupational hazard of growing up tall and lanky with huge noggins. It's sort of like putting a grape on the end of a toothpick and expecting it to dance the rumba. We're not exactly a graceful bunch.

That's OK, though, since the dance is just for us. We skip and stand on toes and pretend to tango and are generally as silly as can be. I'm sure we all look like idiots, but that's sort of the fun of it.

So there we were, dancing a rather overly-enthusiastic conga around the dining room table, when Little Miss tried a little pirouette and wound up slipping and cracking her chin on our new hardwood floor.

Thus ended the festivities. One ruined party dress, one blood stained Daddy-shirt, and a tearful trip to the emergency room later, we had a stitched up chin and a lesson learned: grapes don't make for very good Ginger Rogers'.