’Twas the night before Christmas, my house was a mess.
My temples were throbbing from holiday stress.
I longed for some sleep, an hour-long nap,
but I still had a mountain of presents to wrap,
and dozens of Santa-shaped cookies to bake.
Lord, even my eyebrows were starting to ache.
“I really need help!” I yelled at my spouse,
frowning at him when he entered the house.
“Time’s running out and I’m so far behind,
I’m losing what little is left of my mind!”
Shrugging, he said, “Take a break, get some rest.
Um…you know you have cookie dough stuck on your chest?”
“Just help me,” I begged, “I HAVE to get done!
I’ll bake while you wrap – come on, we'll have fun!”
“Fun?” he repeated, shaking his head.
“It’s late and I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“You do, and I swear, I’ll have no recourse.
I’ll call my attorney and file for divorce!”
“Okay,” he surrendered, “I’ll wrap while you bake.
Just don’t get upset when I make a mistake.”
The moment I started to roll out the dough,
my husband shouted, wanting to know,
“Where’s the tape? The scissors? The
paper? The bows?”
“On the table,” I snapped. “Right under your nose!”
He picked up the paper and tore off a sheet,
without using scissors – a crooked three feet.
Then wrapped the first box, only four inches wide,
using all of that paper, clumped on each side.
He noticed a spot where the paper had split,
so he stuck on some bows to camouflage it.
He used so much tape I suspected he might
buy stock in 3-M sometime that night.
I cringed as I watched him cut, fold and pleat.
I’d seen better work…at the deli…on meat.
I wisely kept silent and didn’t complain,
because I was desperate (and also in pain).
“I’m done!” he declared in an hour or so
(my cookies had burned and I needed more dough).
“Can I please go to bed?” he asked with a yawn.
I nodded, and in a flash he was gone.
I stayed up all night, re-wrapping his work,
a project that nearly drove me berserk.
When I finished, the sun was just coming up.
So I heated some coffee and downed half a cup.
While sitting (at last) near the brightly lit tree,
the holiday spirit revisited me.
And I felt the magic of Christmas once more…
then slumped in my chair and started to snore.
’Twas the night before Christmas, my house was a mess.
My temples were throbbing from holiday stress.
I longed for some sleep, an hour-long nap,
but I still had a mountain of presents to wrap,
and dozens of Santa-shaped cookies to bake.
Lord, even my eyebrows were starting to ache.
“I really need help!” I yelled at my spouse,
frowning at him when he entered the house.
“Time’s running out and I’m so far behind,
I’m losing what little is left of my mind!”
Shrugging, he said, “Take a break, get some rest.
Um…you know you have cookie dough stuck on your chest?”
“Just help me,” I begged, “I HAVE to get done!
I’ll bake while you wrap – come on, we'll have fun!”
“Fun?” he repeated, shaking his head.
“It’s late and I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“You do, and I swear, I’ll have no recourse.
I’ll call my attorney and file for divorce!”
“Okay,” he surrendered, “I’ll wrap while you bake.
Just don’t get upset when I make a mistake.”
The moment I started to roll out the dough,
my husband shouted, wanting to know,
“Where’s the tape? The scissors? The paper? The bows?”
“On the table,” I snapped. “Right under your nose!”
He picked up the paper and tore off a sheet,
without using scissors – a crooked three feet.
Then wrapped the first box, only four inches wide,
using all of that paper, clumped on each side.
He noticed a spot where the paper had split,
so he stuck on some bows to camouflage it.
He used so much tape I suspected he might
buy stock in 3-M sometime that night.
I cringed as I watched him cut, fold and pleat.
I’d seen better work…at the deli…on meat.
I wisely kept silent and didn’t complain,
because I was desperate (and also in pain).
“I’m done!” he declared in an hour or so
(my cookies had burned and I needed more dough).
“Can I please go to bed?” he asked with a yawn.
I nodded, and in a flash he was gone.
I stayed up all night, re-wrapping his work,
a project that nearly drove me berserk.
When I finished, the sun was just coming up.
So I heated some coffee and downed half a cup.
While sitting (at last) near the brightly lit tree,
the holiday spirit revisited me.
And I felt the magic of Christmas once more…
then slumped in my chair and started to snore.
A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL OF MY READERS!
# # #
Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
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