Stray Junior Mint

The most coveted gift received in the Smith home for Christmas 2017 wasn’t wireless earphones or a pair of Nike Zoom Vapors.  It was this:

A Bob Ross Chia Pet!

Could you die?  Like a standard Chia Pet isn’t cha-cha enough, they go and Bob Ross it up?  Dee-vyne!

It’s like his name was in the air this year.  A few weeks ago, my son had a friend over who was waxing poetic about how freaking awesome Bob Ross is.  I found this delightful, having assumed that Bob Ross was forgotten with my generation of Shows We Watched While Faking Sick. Turns out he’s still stippling strong via You Tube.  Who knew?

The following week, we received a Christmas Card which was, without a doubt, the Grand Prize Winner of the Annual Unspoken Christmas Card Contest (don’t pretend you don’t rank them as they come in.)  Check out this symphony of awesomeness:

Could you die?  Who has friends this Ross-ome?  WE DO.

That’s three Bob Ross sightings in three weeks.  Shoot, I haven’t been that Ross-ed up since I cried “mono” in the twelfth grade.  (I almost didn’t graduate, but I did get five straight weeks of the Bob Ross/Love Connection/Family Feud afternoon lineup.  You tell me who’s the smart kid.)

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Who ever said the “most wonderful time of the year” was Christmastime?

A dad, that’s who.  I’d bet my figgy pudding on it.

Ask any mom when the most wonderful time of the year is and her answer will be the same as my answer, and my mom’s answer, and my grandma’s answer and my sister’s and my best friend’s and the grouchy neighbor lady’s down the street:  the most wonderful time of the year isn’t Christmas, it’s the week after Christmas.  For every mother, everywhere. Because as of December 26, a mother is no longer responsible for turning every euphemism in the blessed canon of carols into a living and breathing reality.  You see, the holidays have a way of taking the blood, sweat and tears of us moms and wrapping them in candy-coated words like peace and joy.

Peace and joy?  Really?  Says who, the self-checkout voice at Target that asks you–once again–to “Please. Put. Your. Item. In. The. Bagging. Area.”?  You’ve heard this grim electronic suggestion at least ten times this December, and yet are never able to persuade the robot inside the scanner that your item is ALREADY IN THE BAGGING AREA; it’s always been in the bagging area, it was born in the bagging area.  It’s 2017; why can’t a fake human understand this?  So now the “Attendant” light is flashing on your screen and you’re stuck waiting for a real human to help you, even though the whole point of self-checkout was to avoid waiting for real humans in the first place because, naturally, Target has but two real humans working but two real checkstands at 4:00 pm on December 23.

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I’m gonna say it:  I’ve been crabby lately.  Snippy, snappy, irritated and crabby.

I’m not sure why—maybe it’s the startup of the early mornings that I’m not quite used to, maybe it’s the cooling weather (not a fan), maybe it’s a midlife crisis (still not a fan.)  Maybe it’s the dog.  The dog is a pain.

But whatever it is, I need to knock it off.  There’s a slight chance it’s getting on some people’s nerves around here.

I’ve always thought of myself as a nice person, but now I’m not so sure.  Lately I feel like I “play” nice more than I am nice.  I’m non-confrontational, no doubt.  I’m a born diplomat and generally passive, so I’ve long avoided the pitfalls of girl drama and I still do, except in one place—which is, unfortunately, my own head.  Lots of girl drama there—plenty of pettiness and resentment, irrationality and hypersensitivity—and because it’s in my own head, I don’t have anyone to hash it out with.  Except for you.  (Thank you for joining me inside my own head.)

Such crabby spells are, obviously, a normal part of life.  But acknowledging that doesn’t make them go away, and I want mine to go away.  I don’t like being crabby because:

a) it puts a gruesome burden on those around me, and

b) it puts a gruesome burden on me.  (And it’s all about me.)  So,

c)  everybody loses.

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