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Christmas Magic | Dos

My parents work on Christmas cardz. My mom legitimately sends 250. And you think I'm kidding, but I'm not kidding. "I wouldn't kid you; you're my favorite goat!" <--That's one of my dad's favorite dad-jokes. Enjoy it, internet.
My parents work on Christmas cardz. My mom legitimately sends 250. And you think I’m kidding, but I’m not kidding. “I wouldn’t kid you; you’re my favorite goat!” <–That's one of my dad's favorite dad-jokes. Enjoy it, internet.

“May your days, may your days, may your days be merry and briiii-ay-ay-aight…”

Want to know other magical things about Christmas? I WILL TELL YOU. Friends. They come back into town, they want to make plans and hang out. Or they’re still in town, but you don’t see them too much anymore, and they want to hang out. Or they don’t come back to town at all, so they just send Christmas cards.

Oh, the Christmas cards.

But! Wait! I have two instances of awesome-Christmas-merriment, and I’m here to share, don’t cha know?

A dialogue between friends planning a potluck.

Friend 1: Wanting to see what we can have ready for our potluck meal…any suggestions/dietary no-no’s?

Friend 2: I know Nell is gluten-free. So no glutens!

Friend 3
: I’m gluten deficient so I need extra gluten.


Friend 3: I have to take supplement.

Should I smack him now or later?


But first, there’s a story you need to know (warning: blood).

The story is, when I was about five years old, I turned the corner from our living room to the hallway. And Josh was standing there. And his hand was full of blood and bleeding even more. Like, full of blood. Blood everywhere. But, he wasn’t crying. I think he was shocked by the experience.

I didn’t know it at the moment, but he had grabbed one of my father’s razors and slit his palm quite nicely.

Maybe it cut him so sharply that he didn’t feel the pain. Anyway, he was wiping his bloody hand on the wall, trying to get the blood off. Only, since his veins worked as veins are apt to do, the blood kept reappearing. So, he’d take another step and wipe again. And again. And again. From one end of our hall to the other were toddler-high bloody handprints, wiped on the wall.

Now, be me.

The thing about children is: they have, like, literally no life experience. This was a new thing for me, this blood-on-the-wall.

I looked at Josh.

He whispered, “Don’t tell mom,” and continued to wipe his hand on the wall.

Now, being a child with little to no life experience, I weighed my options. I knew for a fact that my mom was having a rough day that day. I knew it for a fact. I had a suspicion that blood wasn’t exactly a great thing, but since Josh wasn’t screaming, I figured he could handle it. I decided, in my ignorance, that it probably wasn’t a great idea to tell my mom at the moment, since it seemed like she had a lot on her mind.

So instead I walked away.

Later, my mom turned the corner.

Please, imagine the reaction.

It went something like:


And I said, quietly and collected, “I think it might be Josh.”
(Emphasis on “think” and “might”)

(This is the worst story, I know, I’m sorry).

So then my mom when and washed him and the wall and bandaged his hand for the next few days and, yeah, that’s what it’s like if you have kids.

That’s the story.

It’s a vivid memory for me. The bloody handprints and what not.


We got this card in the mail from my out of townzies cousin.

Part the front.
Part the front.

And the inside?

Holiday wishes ain’t no joke, ya’ll.


Keep it merry!!

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