We're kind of confused and irritated here at the ranch because we didn't get to have Christmas with our families this year. Well, we had every intention to but here is how it went down:
Everything was going perfectly and Christmas was busting out all over! The halls were decked and festooned and fa-la-la'd:
The Mister and I dressed up in our holiday finest and went Christmas shopping:
Here I am in my cute red skirt suit that's just perfect for Christmas. Yes, I've had some work done.
I made this kitschy little snowman out of a bleach bottle.
The tissue paper was flowing like rivers!
It even snowed! It was a holiday miracle!
The world rejoiced…..
And then THIS happened:
Mister Kitsch injured his back and ended up at the hospital.
Whomp. Whomp.
Okay, so if you've never been to the emergency room, you simply must at some point - but only to visit, I assure you. The waiting room is usually quite the petri dish of both interesting characters and well, life threatening flesh eating germs. There's usually at least one small child eating Cheetos and licking their fingers after touching the nasty plastic chairs that have been sat in by thousands of people. If you go to the bathroom, you're going to find that someone before you has taken the time to craft a giant toilet paper nest upon the top of the toilet seat and then finding it unworthy, peed in the floor instead. And you're going to get at least three people who want to stare into your eyes even though emergency room waiting room protocol strongly advises against it.
We learned that around the final week of the year, the number of patients coming through the ER pretty much doubles because people want to get things done under their insurance before those copays start fresh. Great. Let's just say that it was two seconds short of a mob scene. People coughing on each other and cursing the nurses. The well-stocked "Sneeze Station" sat untouched. It was simply too far to walk and we were all going to die anyway. The lady across from us was clutching a barf bag as if it was her final dollar and waved it around way too loosely for those around her who weren't quite sure if it was empty or full. Every time that she stood up and careened around, I just *knew* that I was going to end my 2013 with a complete stranger's barf on my head. If it can happen to anyone, it will happen to me. Trust.
Somewhere about halfway through, a very suave looking gentleman came in with a beautiful rockabilly coif of dark hair and pencil legged trousers, starched shirt and vest. Since it was Nashville, he also brought his guitar case. He looked like he'd stepped right out of Johnny Cash's backup band from long ago in the day. And then all of a sudden, he cut loose talking to himself - I mean really, really talking to himself - and half of what he must have been saying were jokes because he was cracking himself up. Then he launched into song, right there in the middle of the slithering snake pit of a waiting room. He sang and sang at the top of his lungs and giggled between verses. The two quite-possible gangbangers next to him looked way perturbed and nervously scratched the prison tats on their necks. With the exception of the lady next to me who was nearly sleeping on my shoulder, everyone seemed perched to see what would happen next.
Suddenly, a hispanic man stumbled into the room behind a sweaty, sick brow and collapsed into a chair and squeezed shut his bloodshot eyes. This was all that the songbird needed and just like a needle had been dropped on a record, he began to wail "Noche de Paz" in the best Jose Feliciano impression ever. I sat up like the air had been suddenly starched and wanted to yelp with joy but instead, I stared at the partly full urine sample cup that rolled back and forth beneath the facing row of chairs. Mister Kitsch unexpectedly jolted from time while wailing in pain as if he was in the electric chair. Nobody even noticed. As time wore on, I wondered why the sneeze station wasn't instead a cyanide station. I also wondered what stomach bug I'd have to thank the room for later. The news anchor on TV acted way too excited over her guest's hummingbird cake creation. Grasping at any straw that resembled the outside world, I took out my phone and made a note that said "Make Hummingbird Cake".
About seven hours later, we finally gasped out into the streets and swore that we'd die in our home before we'd ever go back to that place.
The Mister has been in some monster pain, let me tell you. There will be no long distance traveling for Christmas this year. We scheduled the trip twice and canceled it twice and are just now starting to resolve ourselves that we won't get to see our family this year. Boy, are we bummed! To ease the pain, we've eaten monster amounts of queso dip. As you can expect, queso dip is not an adequate substitute for the hugs and laughter of family. We spent Christmas day saying, "It just doesn't feel like Christmas…" and it didn't. I watched stupid Lifetime movies and the Mister enjoyed the effects of strong meds and just like that, Christmas was done.
But let me tell you, we are really whooping it up for New Year's Eve! I went out and bought myself some fancy treats:
My first bottle of wrinkle cream. Sparkling Grape Juice. Three new pairs of socks.
I also bought this really stupid "As Seen on TV" twenty dollar cat toy that my kitties would rather pee on than to discuss.
Ain't no party like an Eartha Kitsch party 'cause an Eartha Kitsch party don't stop.
I want to wish every one of you a great New Year's Eve. Be safe and have fun and above all, be reflective of what this year has been - be it good or bad. On top of those wishes, I hope that 2014 is the best year yet for you.
If you'd like something peppy to wash away the slow agony that was this post, be sure and go on over to "No Pattern Required" and see my column today on decorating your New Year's Eve party with tinfoil.
Yep.
Until next time,
x's and o's,
Eartha
