Twelve Days of Mistress

Why did I not see that headline with regard to the Tiger Woods scandal? It was SO easy.  It seems like every day we wake to hear about a new Tiger Woods mistress. These girls could already have their own calendar, with several months to spare. Tiger passed “indiscretion” and “transgression” several ladies ago. Still, it’s his personal life and it would be nice to see this go away now. Unfortunately, people love salacious stories and they love to see the mighty fall. This story has legs and it will probably be with us until the last mistress gets her 15 minutes on The Today Show. Not even a Christmas Eve terrorist could deflect it.

The 12 days of Christmas are gone now. After all that preparation, only scattered scraps of wrapping paper and cookie crumbs on the floor remain as reminders that Christmas came and went. Personally, I like the post-holiday part. I clean away all of the Christmas clutter and get a fresh start. Let’s face it, Christmas brings with it a lot of baggage. No matter how hard I try, it’s never perfect. The older I get, the more I can accept that. Just as with presents, you don’t always get what you want and some things just don’t work.

The best part of Christmas has been having the boy home. Although he’s on the go and we’re on the go, there are still moments of peaceful togetherness that negate all Christmas grousing. This year I found myself waxing nostalgic with him, reminding him of Christmases past, just like a grandparent might do. I can only imagine how boring that must have been for him, but it’s good to help kids remember things that they might not. Someday he can bore his child to death too.

Gathering with relatives brings both Christmas joy and Christmas pain. Visits are best at the beginning and worst near the end. I don’t think someone arrived at that three-day rule by chance. Much research must have gone into it. It’s no surprise that you can’t live with your family again.  We’re not meant to–at least not here. People in other countries may have perfected many generations living under one roof, but I’d have to witness it in action to believe there’s no bickering, no personal attacks, no guilt trips, etc. As I settle down for my post-visit nap, I’d like to think that any gaffes were stress induced.  Or perhaps I dreamed that I slammed my cell phone down and told my stepfather to stop complaining. Did I use an expletive when my brother asked us to tote my nephew’s giant basketball hoop to his house? It’s possible. And it’s hazy, but I think at one point I yelled at my son, “It’s Christmas. We all have to make sacrifices. God knows I do.”

But I also provided games to play and food and drink. I made sure there were toys for my nephew to play with. I scurried to finish a scarf for my mother by Christmas Eve. I made cookies that I am unable to eat myself.  It all evens out, I think. The perfect Christmas is a myth.  I know that for sure. Happy New Year.