Some Festive Christmas-Related Content

I am happy to report I’m finally rid of the worst and most annoying cold in the history of colds. It wasn’t COVID, BTW. It was just a horrible, rotten, d*amn awful cold - the worst cold in the history of colds.

I used to think people who complained about colds were…well…kind of wimpy and maybe a tad dramatic. I will never again think such a thing. From this point forward, when someone near me sniffles, I will rush to their side, murmuring words of support, giving my deepest, most heartfelt condolences, and pledging my support. Well, after I mask up and douse my entire body with hand sanitizer, of course.

I was sick for so freaking long I couldn’t remember what it was like to feel normal. I never went to the doctor, but I self-medicated at home with pain relievers, OTC cold medicine, asthma medicine, and that stupid steroid the insurance company hates to pay for (which messes with my taste buds and makes everything taste like seventeen flavors of ass) and an occasional nightcap consisting of cheap but tasty chocolate wine that Bill bought in St. Augustine that always makes me sleepy.

Thank goodness I’m on the other side of that horror. More than once, my heart was pounding out of my chest, and I was convinced I WAS DYING, or maybe it was just because I was having to work ridiculously hard to perform strenuous activities such as breathing and walking to the kitchen for a cookie.

I wasted too many days leading up to Thanksgiving lying around the house feeling sorry for myself, convinced that a freaking cold ruined my life. Loss of interest in usual activities? Yep. Feeling sad? Yep. Fatigue? Yep. Reclusive? Yep. I did try to venture out once or twice when I had a rare surge of energy, but OMG, have you ever tried to put makeup on a face that is a red, wet pile of mush?

Bill, who I’ve spent many a blog entry poking fun at, also survived his cold, and I’m not sure which of us complained more. We might be equal. Or I might have bitched and whined just a teensy bit more, especially when his walrus-like snorings and throat gaspings hit 120 decibels.

Good grief! I’ve complained for six paragraphs about a virus that’s been gone for at least a week. You probably read this, rolled your eyes, and thought, “Enough already!!” Gosh, I’m sorry. I promise never to mention this cold again. Let’s move on to some festive Christmas-related content…

Christmas Eve 1992

A few hours before this picture, I was wailing because I didn’t have a gold bow to put in my hair that matched my gold shoes, which I took off after a few minutes because who wears heels when they’re 6 months pregnant? Boy, did I have my priorities in order. (Eyeroll) Bill ran all over town that afternoon looking for the right gold bow, came home with a shopping bag full of them, and most likely breathed a sigh of relief when I stuck one in my hair and shut the hell up..

December 1986

Rare sighting of my real hair color. I think this was my first little apartment. I had a set of 1970s end tables I started painting Pepto-pink, an ancient television sitting on a 1970s microwave stand and not much else.

Christmas 1987

Same apartment, same tree, same microwave stand, and ancient TV, but we also have prettier curtains and a couch! I laid it away at JCPenney, faithfully made payments, and was so freaking proud when it was delivered a few days before this picture was taken.

Side note: I look at that young girl, who was kind of cute and pretty skinny but believed she wasn’t, and wonder why she had zero confidence. GAH! If only we could go back in time and talk some sense into our younger selves.

Christmas 1990

Aunt Rita opens a box and finds she has been gifted the turkey carcass! By that point, it was about 10 years old and looking slightly battered but the tradition continued!

Christmas 1983

My grandfather is on the right, with his brothers Frank in the center and Albert on the left. Frank was the tallest one in the family, at about 5’ 4”. (We are a bunch of tiny Italians.)

Uncle Al was a former policeman and terrified me until the day he died. He is the person I learned all my swear words from at an early age, and HE SHOUTED EVERYTHING HE SAID. A typical conversation went like this:

HOW THE HELL ARE YOU?!

WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? (To 5 year old me coloring.)

WHERE THE HELL IS MY OLD BATTLE AX? (Referring to his wife, my Aunt Jay.)

EAT THIS DAMN PIECE OF CANDY! (Handing out rootbeer barrels that I didn’t like but was afraid not to eat.)

Yep, he was a joy. My grandfather and his other siblings were soft-spoken. I never understood why Uncle Al was so vulgar. Maybe it was little-man syndrome or growing up in a home with 10 siblings? I’ll never know, but oh, how I miss seeing so many people I took for granted in my younger years.

Christmas Eve 1993

This was during my corporate stage, so I have short corporate hair and am wearing a tan corporate suit because, of course.

Bill shaved his mustache that year and looked like my younger brother. The largest stocking on the mantle was for my mother’s dog.

We were sitting in front of the fireplace that no one ever dared to light no matter how cold it was—my parents never used their furnace, and don’t ask why because I don’t know the answer—or my mother would start squawking about dust and grim settling over the entire house.

So when you visited my parents, you bundled up in layers, sweaters, and jackets, came out from under a blanket for a photo, and enjoyed the HELL OUT OF CHRISTMAS with chattering teeth. (Note sweaters on my grandfather and Uncle Frank in the above photo. No sweater on Uncle Al. He probably just yelled the cold away.

Har har har.