Christmas Symptom Countdown

It’s been a year since I retired. And now that the pumpkins are packed away and Christmas is hovering just around the cranberry sauce comes the season I anticipate all year.

The joyous season of “I’ve Met My Medical Insurance Deductible” is upon us.

The beginning of Advent marks the time allotted to visit all the doctors who have an interest in my health plan before New Year’s draws the curtain and the annual Rite of CoPay It Forward begins anew. It’s a lottery of how many doctors I can fit on my physical symptoms Bingo card before December ends and that mysterious rash goes unrequited. I count down with my Days of the Week pill caddy.

 

It seems like I’ve won the medical specialist lottery. These days I collect professionals whose titles end in -ist like TikTok followers collect new dance moves. I keep cardiologists in my contact list the way the Kardashians keep cosmetologists. My days rotate around medical tests. The Cologuard people send me flowers on my birthday and the local mortuary offered me a discount on my final arrangements.

 

It wasn’t always this way. The second I lit that 60^th candle on my birthday Triple Decker Hot Fudge Chocolate Madness, my knee went out, my heart skipped a beat, and the skin in my neck draped over my chest like Spanish moss. I used to toot my own horn; now I can’t lift my knee without banging my gong.

 

I’m not the type that revels in sickness to get extra attention. I’d rather shave my legs with a cheese grater than have a well-meaning Boy Scout help me across the street. If I want somebody who worries about my every need, I’ll trade my cat for a Golden Retriever.

 

I’m the youngest sibling in my family. Now that we’re all retired, our family potlucks have turned into a medical version of Rock, Paper, Scissors.  Neurologist beats Cardiologist, Cardiologist takes out Orthopedist, Oncologist wipes out Neurologist. We swap for medical supplies instead of gifts. Last year I got the grand prize. It was an enema kit and a picture of George Clooney.

 

I can hardly wait for the results of my physical to let me know what I can’t eat this year. Carbs are out, sugar is out, salt is out.

 

Maybe I’ll just go out.

 

Merry Christmas to all. With no side effects.

The Man Hunt

I'm hunting men this Christmas
The one I want the most
Is really most elusive
Down here so near the coast

The weatherman says eighty
So again this year you'll find
Me at the kitchen window
Building snowmen in my mind.

Best wishes for a very merry Christmas and a blessed and peaceful New Year!

Out the Window

The Captain strolled into the living room. I’m sure he has a targeting sensor that alerts him when I’m busy and don’t want to be disturbed. He wears it on his belt in a holster. Like his multipurpose tool, his phone, and his app-heavy iPod. Batman designed his utility belt after a chance meeting with my husband.

The Captain plunged his hands into his pockets and commented.

“What’s that?”

Figures. I’ve waited twenty years for him to start a conversation and he picks this moment for inspirational dialogue.

“It’s a list. I’m making your New Year’s resolutions.”

“Um, shouldn’t I be in charge of that?”

“You never put the right things.”

“I don’t put the right things on my own list?”

“No, you put things you can’t accomplish. Then you get discouraged. I’m making it easier for you.”

“So you’re helping me out by making my New Year’s resolutions?”

“Exactly.”

“You take that whole helpmate thing to heart, don’t you?”

“I’m glad you finally noticed.”

“So what are my resolutions?”

“Well, you know how you always want to get the windows washed? I’m putting that on your list.”

“My New Year’s Resolution is to wash windows?”

“Yep. And so it won’t be overwhelming, I’ve figured out an easy way. One window every day!”

“So, all I’m going to accomplish next year is washing windows?”

“Every day.”

“Right. I get to wash windows every day.”

“You don’t sound excited.”

“I can’t think why.”

“Very funny. This is a fool-proof plan. So to speak.”

“No so far.”

“Don’t you see. By breaking down the chore into small bits, it’s manageable.”

“So instead of getting them all done in one day, it will take me all year to do it.”

“Right.”

“So there’s no need to put anything else on my To Do list.”

“This isn’t your To Do list. It’s your resolutions. Your To Do list is on an Excel spreadsheet in the computer.”

“Why can’t I make my own resolutions?”

“Because your only resolution is to end up stranded on The Island of Morally Bankrupt Actresses with Penelope Cruz who is wearing nothing but a grass skirt and a pair of coconuts, drinking rum like it was cherry Kool-Aid and singing “Shake Your Bad Thing” while shimmying like a loose shingle in a strong wind.”

“Would you put that on the list?”

“Sure. There’s a spot on November 31st right after you finish the attic windows.”

“November doesn’t have 31 days.”

“And we don’t have an attic.”

“Got it.”

“Nothing slow about you.”

“Could we go see the movie where she plays the pirate captain?”

“That’s not until May. Let’s see how you do with your resolutions.”

“I have a resolution.”

“Oh?”

“It involves Penelope Cruz doing windows.”

“I have a resolution, too.”

“What is it?”

“It involves driving you to the Emergency Room where they can pick safety glass out of the seat of your cargo pants with the Jaws of Life.”

“I’m not sure I like this list.”

“Don’t you see the beauty of it?”

“I think the beauty just went out the window.”

“Don’t worry. If the window is clean enough you can look through and see it waving from the other side.”

“Yeah, from over in the neighbor’s yard. Where the grass is greener.”

“Look at the bright side. At least you’re not Bill Gates.”

“Okay, I agree with that. But why?”

“Because halfway through the window, it would close by itself and there would be parts that were irrecoverable. The resulting crash would trash the supports, frighten the dogs, and result in you spending the rest of the day cleaning up the mess.

“So either way I’m doing windows.”

“Yes, but with my way you get to see the pirate movie.”

“Okay, but if Penelope blue-screens on me, I’m going in as technical support.”

I fired up the shredder and let it suck up the resolutions like a Lincoln Navigator drinking fossil fuel. He scratched his head.

“What about my resolutions?”

“That window of opportunity just slammed shut.”

Christmas Claws

I figure it’s time to take down the Christmas tree when the lights haven’t worked for two weeks, there’s a mysterious lump under the tree skirt that resembles petrified reindeer poop, and local landscapers offer to buy the pile of mulch in the corner of my living room.

I hate to take down the Christmas tree because as long as it is in the room, that corner is as close to decorated as it is any time during the year. I have teenage boys in the house. Once the tree is gone, that spot will automatically give way to a pile of cast off T shirts, sixteen pairs of old tennis shoes, and a large tabby cat. Actually, the cat may be lost somewhere in the maze of branches. I haven’t seen him since before the lights stopped working, but every now and then I can hear the angel on top purr. I think she's had a little too much catnip.

When the breeze of the ceiling fan caused a pile of pine needles the size of a sand dune to settle on the floor, the man who promised to love, honor, and teach the teenagers to drive crossed his arms and regarded the Christmas tree with raised eyebrows.

“It's gotta go.”

I came up beside him, licking the sprinkles off the last holiday cupcake. “It could be a Presidents Day tree. You could hang little pictures of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln on it.”

“The kind of pictures you find on small bills? What if I make it easy and just slip you a twenty?”

“What if I go to the mall and take out my New Year's anxieties on the clearance racks?”

“I don’t have enough presidents for that sort of stimulus package.”

“Well, how long does it take for wood to petrify?” I mused.

“Why do you ask?”

“Maybe we could leave it in the corner all year and pass it off as a sculpture.”

“If dead plants make great sculptures, we have an entire art museum around here.”

The man had a valid point. I’ve killed enough vegetation to decorate a dozen zombie weddings.

I reached for a drooping branch. "According to tradition, all of the decorations should be put away before the New Year starts.

A paw shot out of the center of the tree, snatched the marshmallow snowman off of my cupcake with one claw and disappeared without a sound. A pool of dry needles puddled on the carpet at my feet.

We stepped back a safe distance from the tree. "Let's leave it," I said handing him the tattered remains of the cupcake. "I think the ghost of Christmas past lives in there and he means business."

Wasting Away in Halloweenieville

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I may have to adjust my hair color and distinguishing characteristics and join the witless protection program. It’s half past Labor Day and I’m wearing white.

In the South, the temperature can reach deep fat fry until you’re toasting the naked New Year's baby's sensible clothing choices, so the fashion police gives out warnings instead of tickets for infractions well past autumn. However if you’re sporting white linen when you’re shopping for chocolate Valentines for your sweetheart, somebody’s going to be doing hard time on the Gap’s website.

Admittedly, from listening to testimonies from a knowledgeable selection of teenagers in my household I’m clueless when it comes to accessorizing, but I still think parkas and Ugg boots are out of place in an area where ice cream puddles in the plastic bag between the store and the car until the twelfth day of Christmas.

I gave away my fleece-lined scarecrow costume and cut the sleeves out my my Frosty the Snowman sweatshirt a long time ago. Now I sport a winking Jank-o-Lantern button on my T-shirt for Halloween and a tank top that sings Jingle Bells and flashes Peace on Earth in multicolored LEDs for later festivities.

In flashy catalogues full of natural fiber separates that travel to my mailbox from above the Mason Dixon line every year, I fall in love with summer sweaters every time I see carefree models cavorting next to a rocky shore with a washable wool wrap tossed carelessly over their shoulders.

Around here, we can get first degree burns just from sauntering to the mailbox at midday. The last time I put on a sweater before the appearance of the jolly old elf from the North, I passed out from heat exhaustion and had to be revived by two paramedics dressed in cut off jeans and T-shirts, carrying emergency supplies of sweet tea and crushed ice. In the South, we don’t need fabrics that will “wick away moisture”. We need T-Shirts outfitted with vacuum pumps to siphon out sweat.

So for Halloween, don’t check my street for any little goblins decked out in Star Wars characters that require pounds of fake fur or Transformer costumes with thirteen layers of shape-changing insulation. The most popular look on our street is Jimmy Buffett.

When the sun beats down hard enough for the heat to last until midnight, you can’t go wrong with flip flops, cut off jeans and a Hawaiian floweredy shirt.

And after the kiddies go to bed, the parents won't turn down a treat from Margaritaville.

Blow Dryer, Flash Fryer

I’m convinced my hair dryer, the Flame Thrower, is trying to kill me. Oh, there’s nothing I can point my finger to and say, “Here are the transcripts from a conversation with the hot rollers which definitely points to annihilation by hair sabotage.” It’s subtle things like hurling sparks at my ear early in the morning when it thinks I’m not paying attention. But I’m too cheap to throw the thing out until it chokes on a hairball and sputters to a stop for good. So unless it bites off more once-blonde locks than it can chew, we’re together for another year.

Luckily, since this is a low wattage appliance and therefore has a limited capacity for complicated planning, it has been limited to spitting fire and summoning bursts of superheated air dedicated toward restyling my hair into the flash fried appearance of an overcooked Dorito. My left ear is scorched and it appears that I shrink wrapped my head in an old Brillo pad, but other than that I’m fine.

Lately the wretched thing has been sabotaging me with clandestine bouts of guerilla warfare. Its latest campaign involves the secretive, but effective technique of grabbing clumps of hair and consuming them in a teeth-gnashing frenzy like a buffet-bound supermodel on the first day of retirement. Whenever I bend over to dry the back of my hair, I end up with a festive “hairdo by shredder” look. And the hair dryer looks like a Chia pet in full bloom.

Given the embarrassment of losing daily battles with an appliance that can’t make ice, iron my clothes, or dispose of my garbage, I hoped my hairdresser wouldn’t notice. Perhaps I would sneak in for a trim.

Hairdresser: Well, Amy, what shall we do to. .OH MY GOD! HAVE YOU BEEN IN A FIRE!?

Me: Just even up the gaps, please.

Hairdresser: That’s like pulling up your knee highs to meet your push up bra. Did you lean too close to the birthday cake again?

Me: No, I just had a little trouble with the settings on my hair dryer. It thinks off means "off with her head." Say, could you make me look like Jennifer Anniston?

Hairdresser: OH MY GOD! HAS SHE BEEN IN A FIRE TOO?!

Me: Never mind. Just shave it and I’ll tell everybody I’m sympathizing with Britney during the bad years.

I slunk out of the hair salon looking like a cross between Michael Jordan and last year's geraniums. My resolution for the New Year? That blow dryer’s going down. Even if I have to get the hot rollers to help me.

A Connecticut Yankee In a Southern Box Plant

I come from a place in the South where grease is considered a major food group, biscuits beyond breakfast are as common as watermelon seeds in July, and sweet iced tea is always in season. I’ve traveled extensively from Macon clean up to Roanoke, so I was convinced that these were universal truths.

That is, until I went to work as secretary in a corrugated container plant in South Carolina, under the direction of the Human Resources Manager, a transplanted career woman from Connecticut who said “car-mel” instead of “caramel” and couldn’t use “y’all” correctly in a sentence, even if I spotted her the verb. This wasn’t just a culture clash. This was culture wearing a striped shirt and plaid boxers with Girl Scout socks and a seersucker blazer.

Our differences stuck out like peanut butter on pintos. I thought UConn was a territory in Canada. She had to read the comics out loud to understand the dialogue in Snuffy Smith. We debated mightily about whether it was proper to flip, flick, cut, or turn on the lights. And although there were many times she was starting, getting ready or preparing for something, she was never, ever “fixing” to do anything.

She ate fried chicken for the first time when she migrated South to study for her Master’s at the real USC. When fall holidays drew near she reminisced about Thanksgivings on Nantucket where they feasted on fresh lobster with drawn butter, and rolled her eyes like a hot dog on the Speedy Mart rotisserie when I insisted that a proper Thanksgiving meal boasted at least fifteen different carbohydrates and was smothered in giblet gravy. When I tried to explain about collards and black-eyed peas at New Year’s, she looked at me like I’d suggested wearing hoop skirts to Yankee Stadium.

Extending the hand of Southern hospitality, I invited her to a fine restaurant nearby to show off the local cuisine.

“Everything here is either fried or covered in gravy,” she announced, wiping a spot of yesterday’s special off her laminated menu and peering across the vinyl tablecloth at my plate of chicken-fried steak.

“That’s not true. Some things are fried AND covered in gravy. Have some cornbread.”

“What’s in it besides corn?”

“Bacon grease.”

“No, thanks.”

We straddled the Mason-Dixon line without serious injury for four years, teaming up on everything from safety promotions to company picnics. I discovered that UConn was a fine educational facility, even if it didn’t have a feral feline or saber-wielding rowdy as a mascot , that I could “turn” on the lights without invoking the mental stress clause of my health insurance, and that lobster is a festive and tasty holiday dish, although it doesn’t make for very rich gravy.

And even though my new friend never learned to fry vegetables or to appreciate the subtle humor of Snuffy Smith, she developed a lasting affinity for iced tea.

Sometimes life’s little victories are the sweetest.