Author: Laura Packard

Sleepless in Seattle is one of my favorite rom/com movies, ever. And my favorite quote comes from Rosie O’Donnell’s caustic, yet lovable character, Becky. After reading a letter she and Meg Ryan’s Annie, assumed came from Mr. Sleepless himself (instead of his eight-year-old son), she reminds us “verbal ability is a highly overrated thing in a guy, and it’s our pathetic need for it that gets us into to so much trouble in the first place.” Amen, Becky. Amen and God Bless, Nora Ephron, actually.

Something is in the air.                And given the buildup of frost as thick as my boot heel on my car windshield the other morning, it sure isn’t spring.

I hate winter.             I don’t like cold, colds, cabin fever or ashy fireplaces, either.             And wearing a bundle-some coat, scarf and gloves is not my idea of fashion-forward fun.                 I look and feel like a bratwurst stuffed in a wooly pretzel bun with a stripe of ochre-colored knitted mustard streaming around my neck.

People talk often and feverishly about love at first sight. The lights seem to dim, violins play, deer leap, frogs row and tiny cute birds fly in from out of nowhere just to sing.  For me and my main man, he just looked at me with those dark brown pools of light, started shivering and then peed. That was ten years ago this January and, after scrubbing down my couch, we’ve been best buds ever since. Wow, it’s crazy to think we’ve been tied at the hip for an entire decade.

My husband and I have been together for 5 months shy of 20 years. That’s 19 Christmases, y’all.  We have somehow survived an unending brutal recession, a violently popped real estate bubble, 6 tropical storms, 3 tornadoes and a half dozen nasty cases of the stomach bug. We have remained strong through 7 moves, 43 tween sleepovers, lost teeth, lost keys, flat tires, burnt spaghetti pans, Amex bills, ER visits, and countless steely bouts of individual self-esteem.

I’m not a perfectionist by nature. Except for the last 31 days of the year, when I seem to suddenly morph into one. It’s as if those the first 334 days don’t count. During that time, I don’t seem to mind so much if the day’s events and household chores don’t turn out the way I want them to. So why does Christmas have to be so picture perfect?

To stuff or not to stuff? That is the question.        About the annual Thanksgiving turkey, that is. 

I’m a scaredy cat, y’all. Yep. And it’s just not about things that go bump in the night. I am positively terrified of the cardboard encased can of cinnamon rolls, after I have carefully peeled off the outer layer, waiting for it to explode on contact with the shaky fork I’m holding like an unpinned grenade in my iron squeezed fist.

Editor’s Note: This piece was first published in Coastal Illustrated in March of 2012. When it rains, it pours.           This expression has turned out to be an almost weekly, if not daily, forecast for my life since last November. I keep sitting around waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, and not just drop by the way, but land on my head, knocking me out for the count.

Y’all, I’m worried.  As usual, of course, about a lot of the usual things: where do all my socks really go after I put them in the dryer, is Fat Free milk really free of fat and is someone at the NSA baffled over how many mason jar photos I have put up on Pinterest and what it could possibly mean to the security of our nation?