Why the Airborne?
We got at least five e-mails that said some of our guests were experiencing symptoms. We were not sure what kind, but ruled out rabies, since Aunt Clara reported she was still able to drink water.
We ran all the errands before festivities began on Christmas Eve.
I lost count of the number of guests that crossed our threshold on Thursday night. Some were sneezing and wheezing, as expected. Most went home DUI offenders, as designated drivers got trashed one-by-one. We don’t have that many friends, who wanted to share a sofa and rug with a demented tabby named Chubs, and a high-strung Weimaraner that is barely house broken. So, they opted to menace the highway on their way home.
I pasted an address label on each of their windshields as they left, in case they got lost. They were my least favorite labels anyway, relics done in CGA resolution. I got them free from the missionaries, who are still trying for a donation. I think the return address is a stable somewhere in Bethlehem, PA.
I am now zoning and brewing strong coffee. The house is a mess.
As I look around the living room and watch Chubs chase fragments of Christmas paper, some with scotch tape are sticking to his tail, I laugh. He still gets spooked by the twinkle lights on the tree and gets into his attack position every time a bit of tinsel hits the floor. Someone locked him out of the house last night and he kept company with a family of chipmunks under the pool deck. His face is all dirty.
Chubs’ idea of excitement is chasing his eye floaters, so Christmas means he’s getting close to cardiac arrest. I have to calm him down.
“Bah-Humbug!” I yell, as the tree breaks loose of its moorings and takes a nose dive - Chubs zooms past screeching into the bathroom.
My head is pounding like Buddy the Elf on the table in the mail room:
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