No good can come from a day that starts with diarrhea. Lying on the couch holding my stomach and rushing back and forth to the toilet, the gift of some wonderfully necessary morsel I snarfed up at a Christmas cocktail party, does not forecast an auspicious beginning to the day.
But, I am, above all things, an optimist. Not a smart optimist. A stupid optimist. I just assume that things must get better and I go back out there with my hackles down and my hopes open like vast soybean fields in Iowa. I am not smart enough to know when to throw in the towel, stay home, put my head under a pillow, turn off my ringer, and tell everyone I’m sick. I’m not even smart enough to lie.
So began another day in this increasingly insane holiday season, full of present-making, bank-balance watching, holiday parties, and that looming feeling that, yes, indeed, Christmas will come again this year and, again, I do not feel anywhere near ready for it. After my morning bathroom stint, I walk to my computer to do a little work, send some e-mails, confess to my editors that yes I am indeed still late and no I don’t have the bubonic plague (but I sure wish I did), and gear up for a very productive day of getting something — anything — done before the world shuts down in deference to the Christmas, which is just another whole job unto itself.
Hopper’s in the front yard digging and playing by himself (bless him!) and I have hope, stupid hope. Such stupid hope that I walk out in my comfy PJ’s and slippers to give Hoppy a nuzzle and carefully close the door behind me so Ellison doesn’t get out and . . . we’re locked out. I start walking toward a building where I’m hoping the people are not insane and start ringing doorbells until I get a very nice man who lends me his phone to call Cowboy and seems more embarrassed that his place is untidy than the fact that I’m wearing PJ’s and have bare feet in December.
Here’s where some people might just say “enough already” and go back to bed to wipe the slate clean, but not me. Emboldened by the kindness of the neighbor, I get dressed and Hoppy and I go off to do a little retail therapy at Target. I get him a chewy, I get myself some tacky colored Christmas lights, I leave him in the car while I run in to Origins for 15 minutes, and come back to eviscerated Christmas lights and a dog sitting in the driver’s seat, the chewy in the back untouched.
