(She’s obviously seen better days.)

I was fascinated. What? When did this happen? Why didn’t someone alert me! I hit the info button to see what year the show was released.

July 2006. Go figure.

Perhaps I’m a little late to the party, but regardless, the show reminded me of my late-found love of all things historical. If I had known in my teens what I know now, I would be an archeologist, or anthropologist. Alas, instead, I read biographies and watch Discovery Channel, or Gone with the Wind.

Next, I watched Pompeii: Back from the Dead, which examined the discovery of skeletons in the basement of an excavated villa. The skeletal remains were making it possible for scientists to study the diets and diseases of both the elite and poor.

I had somehow missed this important find as well, which apparently occurred in the 80s. Of course, I was kinda busy in the 80s with important stuff like Flashdance and parachute pants.

A few days after my archeological catch up and sick day, a blogger friend in Scotland, Jo Woolf, of  Jo’s Journal and a beautiful online magazine titled, The Hazel Tree posted that she had found a website, historicalhoney.com, and had written something for them. The site was started by three talented and intelligent women who wanted to make history more accessible. Or, “History without the cobwebs.” Sweeeet. Why didn’t I think of that?

Luckily for me, they published my first effort on Friday.

I may not be an archeologist or anthropologist, but I AM Honey 027.

Please follow the link to The Real Housewives of Versailles, and explore the rest of historicalhoney.com while you’re there.

“What did you do for Easter?”

We ate at the club.

“What did you do this weekend?”

Ate at that new restaurant.

“What did you do last night?”

Ate blue point oysters and fresh halibut.

“What are you doing for Mother’s Day?”

Eating at a buffet where I can continue to stuff my face with cheese, crab, shrimp and pasta salad until I explode. Oh, and after that, have a big heaping helping of prime rib, thank you.

For someone who exercises maybe five times a year, I need to tap the brakes on this.

Robert isn’t helping. This weekend he became totally obsessed with what we were going to do for dinner Saturday night. He started emailing me about it Friday afternoon.  By Saturday afternoon he was in bad shape. The good news is, he KNEW he was obsessing, but somehow couldn’t stop himself.

The same thing happened in France. We had restaurant reservations almost daily for lunch and dinner. Again, I’m not complaining, but this cannot be good. What to eat. Where to eat it. How best to photograph it so you can show people on Facebook.  “Look! I’m eating! Isn’t it amazing!”

How about this?

Annoyed yet?

 *

What about now?

Okay, now I’m depressed I have so many food pictures to choose from.

I can tell you for a fact, there are only two people interested in what you are eating. You and your mother.

And your mother doesn’t really care. She’s just being supportive because for once it’s not a picture of you with a drink in your hand.

(There may be a few exceptions.)

Sandy and I are currently planning a trip to London. The good news is, we don’t make a big deal out of lunch and dinner plans. We’re usually too busy trying to view every castle within a 20 mile radius and then get off our feet. We know for certain we will be eating fish and chips. Other than that, I have no gastronomical expectations. (Fill in your own joke about English food here.)

Regardless, I’m sure a few pictures of menu items will appear on my Facebook timeline. Or Twitter. Or both. After a couple of pints I will no doubt decide there are people out there waiting with breathless anticipation to see what I’m eating during my vacation. Apologies in advance.

Bon appetit!

* Picture #3 above is Robert’s invention. The Meat Tower. Sausage and bacon rest upon a bed of hash browns with grilled onion, drizzled in maple syrup. Heart attack on a plate, but oh so good.

For the past three Easters, I spent the Saturday before subjecting myself to what can only be described as one of the circles of hell. I accompany my mother, brother, sister-in-law and my precocious niece to the country club where an Easter egg hunt is held for the children. This is not an occasion for the faint of heart. However, as a PANK (*Profesional Aunt, No Kids), it is my duty and something I look forward to in some twisted way. As you might imagine, the club’s dining room is crawling with children.

Children anticipating candy, while eating candy. A D.J. blasts what I consider completely inappropriate music like, “Thrift Shop”, as 2-4 year olds bounce up and down to the rhythm. Frankly, between the decorations, the cupcake making tables, the screaming, running, and the 6- foot 5-inch easter bunny who bears a striking resemblance to Harvey, I don’t know how anyone comes away sane.

After 3 years I have the survival guide down. Enter room through whatever amazing decor they’ve appointed as the theme – either through a small doorway where you enter the looking-glass with Alice, or down the yellow brick road to join Dorothy and the Wizard. If you haven’t snagged a waiter proffering champagne in less than 30 seconds, you’re toast. The nerve endings behind your eyes start to flare and you’ll have a migraine for the rest of the day.

Champagne in hand, I make my way to the table where my family awaits. My niece waves shyly, then pretends she would rather not know me. Others have tried the same before, but she’s family, so not going to get away with it. It works well, this game of hard-to-get.

In an effort to win her to my side I stumble to the buffet tripping over small, darting, screeching objects, or children, I suppose, to get to the bacon. I return to the table and wave at my niece. Yes, bacon is her bliss. Just like her aunt.

Now, it’s the countdown to the Easter egg hunt as we look at our watches and stare at the Easter bunny while he poses for pictures. I’m on glass two of mimosa. Believe me, it wasn’t making a dent in the din. Of course there are moments when you look around and see all the children in their cute Easter outfits and can’t help but smile. Then you recall that for every sweet little boy or girl, there’s a wide-eyed maniac ready to knock them to the floor and take their candy. After stepping on their fingers. These little events just help prepare them for what’s coming, I suppose. Toughen up, you in the pastel pink sundress with your ponytails! Your mom just basically gave you handles for a hairstyle. Meet Tommy, who’s going to grab you by one of those and swing you right into a tizzy as he steals your painted eggs.

Before the hunt we visit the petting zoo. One day, I am going to get thrown out because I am going to dress down every parent whose child is lifting baby ducks by the head, nearly stomping on terrorized bunnies and playing tug of war over a lamb. I stand beside the fenced area where I gasp and cover my eyes waiting for something to keel over dead. Possibly me. Parents gather outside the fence taking pictures and chatting as they ignore little Brenda holding onto bunnies back legs as he attempts an escape. Those feet were definitely not lucky for him. “Play dead! Play dead!” I shout above the chaos.

Now, once beside the hunting grounds, I tried to prepare my niece for success – without telling her to knock people down. Instead, I pointed out the eggs that were on the ground immediately in front of the rope where we waited for the “go” sign. Which of THOSE THREE EGGS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU are you going to pick up first? I prodded. Those are really nice EGGS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU nudge-nudge. I BET YOU CAN GET TO THOSE IN TWO STEPS. Hello? Sarah is nodding, but her eyes are unfocused. Like when I try to point out a squirrel across the yard to Daisy and she stares at my finger instead.

(There, you can barely see me leaning over and coaching. You’ll know me by the champagne flute dangling in my hand.)

Sure enough, the rope dropped and I watched indignantly as Sarah raced past three, four, eight eggs before she heard us and stopped. PICK UP AN EGG! Her mother shouted. EGGS! RIGHT THERE!!! We all echoed, pointing madly in ever direction. LOOK AROUND! Her mother shouted again. I saw a little boy heading her way picking up eggs like an aardvark inhales ants and had to physically turn away in dispair. The three eggs right in front of us sat untouched. Sigh.

Seeing my lovely but directionally challenged niece had a decent collection in her basket by the end, I sauntered to the table set beside the hunting area where glasses and glasses of champagne called my name.

Back inside, I steadied my breathing and stepped once more into the breach. The giant Easter bunny was attempting to avoid a little boy who was determined to whack him in the head. Over and over again. In between polite, yet ineffective avoidance maneuvers, the bunny was giving hugs to the other children. The boy would put one hand on the bunny’s arm to brace himself, then launch into the air, smacking the giant bunny head, causing it to spin sideways or tip. As I watched in dismay, the bunny was stepping closer and closer to two plates that had been left on the ground by other demons, I mean children, whose parents had obviously no understanding of the concept of parenting and had abandoned their duties. After the fifth or sixth time he punched the bunny’s head – I was unable to control myself. I stepped up behind the child (probably 7-years old) and said, “HEY!”

He turned slowly to look at me, his eyes alight with his bunny bonking success. I squinted my eyes at him, doing my best Clint Eastwood in his prime, and shook my head slowly, “Don’t. Do. It. Again.” His eyes widened and he darted off. Quick as a bunny.

Aside from the momentary fear I was about to be assaulted by a bad parent and have a knock down drag out, I was pretty pleased.

I downed the last of my glass and walked off into the noonday sun.

And THAT’S how I rescued the Easter bunny.

*Reference to PANK does in no way indicate I don’t consider Derek and Austin my kids. I just didn’t get to do this sort of “little kid” thing with them.

During this feast, we would be able to ask God all those questions that have troubled us, and He would answer our queries. Now, the thought of sitting at a dinner table for ETERNITY was not a big turn on for me at the time. I had trouble sitting at a table during family gatherings for the 2 hour period it normally took, much less sitting there forever.

Sure, I wanted to go to heaven like everyone else, but this seemed like punishment to my 6-10 year old brain.

The one part I liked, and still do, was the opportunity to ask questions and have God explain everything. Then again, I can only imagine that it may be like what bothered me so much about school. There were always those kids who just couldn’t keep up, and whose concerns and questions made me envision stabbing them in the neck with my pencil. I had no patience for them then, and despite this event being held in HEAVEN, I still can’t imagine my patience improving THAT much. I imagine God would frown on my stabbing my table mate with a fork (just to get their attention, of course, not to permanently maim).

Frankly, I’ll leap across the table to take down the first person who raises their hand and says, “God, would you please explain to us the origin and existence of Bigfoot? Why couldn’t we find him? What was his purpose?” That is, unless God smiles and says, “Bigfoot? Seriously?” and then shoots a lightning bolt across the table. Then again, the threat of asking God a stupid question and getting zapped would probably make everyone think twice about raising their hands next.

I have different questions. I’m not in a lather about whether the Loch Ness monster exists, or where Jimmy Hoffa is buried. I want stories. Sitting around listening to some good stories could be tolerated for YEARS.

I want to hear about things like the 5,000 year old skeleton couple caught in an eternal embrace in Italy. What’s THEIR story? A Neolithic Romeo and Juliet.

Tell me about the l’Inconnue de la Seine, the young woman who drowned in the Seine around the turn on the last century. A young medical assistant in the morgue became so enamored of her face that he made a casting of it. The copies of the cast became all the rage, and the mysterious story behind the young woman’s death inspired a slew of authors.

The lost colony of Roanoke would be an interesting topic, no doubt, unless the truth is as simple as the colonists being captured by a tribe of Croatan Indians.

What about the Lost City of Helike? Is it Atlantis?

The Carnac Stones? I doubt that even if there was a Merlin, he turned 3,000 soldiers to stone, but wouldn’t it be cool if he did?

Maybe God could explain how women are able to read those Shades of Grey books. I can’t make my way through it for laughing at the dialogue. (Although I realize they’re not being read for the witty repartee.)

Perhaps I’d be interested in hearing if Oswald acted alone or not, too. Just in case.

Bu since we are at an eternal dinner party, I’d definitely like to ask God about the whole shellfish issue. Was I really NOT supposed to eat lobster or crab? Really? Does that seem fair? Why did He give us butter and lemons if those shell encased creatures of deliciousness were off limits? Just seems cruel, really.

Maybe they were going to be a surprise at this little soiree.

Regardless. I still have issues with this version of heaven. With or without shellfish.

Let’s say I did it for science. Why else would someone over the age of 25 attend a St. Patrick’s Day parade they have managed to avoid for the last 20 years? Dallas has hosted this parade since 1979 and it has grown to over 100,000 party-goers.

I attended once before. In the 90s. After being pushed and shoved, having beers sloshed all over me by strangers (and myself), I decided to forego the event indefinitely. Even though we’ve been living within a mile of the parade route for nearly three years, I’ve had no desire to participate.

However, Friday, Robert informed me we were attending this year with his friends.

What?

We’re going. It’ll be fun.

Harrumph.

So, Saturday morning I awoke at 8:00 AM. Unheard of for me on a weekend. By 9:00, our guests were here wearing bright green shirts, beads, and headbands with shamrocks on springy antennas. I looked positively funereal in my camouflage pants, gray t-shirt and sunglasses. My spirits lifted a bit when I was handed a tumbler of champagne and orange juice. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

I slurped my vitamin C infused alcohol from my red plastic Solo cup with a guilty eye toward the clock, 9:30. We piled in the car and drive .07 miles to a parking place, where the ever-prepared and much more awake friends offered us beads, a green bowler hat and shamrock stickers to apply to our persons. I passed. Robert looked splendid in his bowler. The threat of tequila shots avoided, we made our way to the street and perched against the barricades lining the route.

The parade began at 11:00. At ten ’til, I was on my second banana, pineapple, vodka something. People-watching was entertaining. Two college aged boys were holding up signs as they moved through the crowd. “Free hugs!” Genius. Women were lining up. Some guys, too.

I had to stop watching because I could sense people moving in on my space. Widening my stance and extending my elbows, I returned to claiming my territory, lest some interloper edge me out of my front row view. Nothing worse than being tipsy at 11:00 in the morning and losing your spot to some munchkin who manages to sneak in under your guard.

As we listened to Snoop Dog’s sound check, “Check, check, check, check,” ad infinitum, I wondered for the hundredth time when I could go home and take a nap.

Wait! The parade! Down the street, we saw the approach of police lights and could hear the faint wail of bagpipes. A picture’s worth a ridiculous amount of words, so here you go. This way, you can say you saw the parade without having to attend.

Float occupants tossed beads to the greedy, screaming crowd. They really need to practice this, as beads either skidded across the asphalt, the strand breaking before coming to a rest about three feet from us on the wrong side of the barricade, or they whipped past us at a velocity that caused me to duck and cover. Every now and then, I’d shoot an arm straight into the air mid-duck and find my hand gripping one of the coveted necklaces. Robert and his pal were a bit more aggressive, plucking them from the air and placing them over our heads until we were weighted down. I kept repeating, “Tim Gunn would not approve. Fashion dictates you take a look in the mirror and remove one accessory item.”

I was ignored.

We were home by 12:30, and I was sound asleep by 7:30 PM, at which time my husband shoved me toward the bedroom. I awoke at 1:00 AM. WIDE AWAKE.

There you have St. Patrick’s Day in Dallas. I am the proud owner of a dozen strands of beads, if not more, a cookie from the Hare Krishna float (don’t ask), and three koozies.

Give me another 20 years and I may be up for this again.

I’ve done what women fear most. I’ve broken up with my hair stylist.

As my friend Doug often writes, <clutch pearls.>

Guys may not understand, but a girl’s hair stylist is sacred. It’s easily right next to mother, sister, best friend, and cat on the list of those we tell our secrets (and everyone else’s) to.

The one I left had been doing my hair for almost 20 years. We’ll call him Mark. He had all the aspects of a great stylist – he was gay, handsome and vacationed at the best destinations. Mark was introduced to me by my mother, who has gone to him forever. He owns a posh shop in a ritzy location and caters to beautiful people. Models stomp through the salon all day showing off their shoes and a variety of outfits I can’t afford. There’s little that reduces your self-esteem like wearing a frumpy black smock and sporting little hair sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil on your head as some 6’1″ goddess with flawless skin and hair twirls in front of you.

And the cost! The expense of the haircut/color/highlights versus the result was just not balancing out. Frankly, for the $225 before tip that I forked over, I should have been swooning every time I saw myself in the mirror. I definitely shouldn’t be going home and staring in the mirror making angry face.

The realization that I needed to change finally sank in when I attended my mother’s 70+ birthday party. I looked around the dining room at all the dozen or so women in attendance and realized they very nearly had the same haircut as my mother – each and every one. I sassily pointed it out to my husband who responded, “Ann, you are dangerously close to having your mother’s haircut too.”

<GASP. Clutch pearls.>

He was right. Time for a new gay.

I mean guy.

A STRAIGHT guy at a convenient location that is not nearly so hoity-toity.

D. has attitude, a wife and kids, and tattoos.

He even tells me I came in sporting “Soccer mom hair.”

That’s the kind of opinion I NEED from a straight guy. Believe me, soccer mom hair was not viewed as a compliment by me, nor was it meant as one by him. I was actually wandering around with soccer mom hair. Kill me.

At the end of an hour that little situation was corrected. Soccer mom is dead. Long live the cross between Jenna Elfman and Robin Wright (in House of Cards.)

Let’s just pray D. does some good color, because I’m going to be very sad if I have to crawl back, ask for forgiveness, and explain to Mark why my hair has been razored.

“I was attacked by a hair dressing gang of ruffians…”

So, I tried to think of things to do that would cheer me, or inspire me, or terrify me. Something to distract me from the impending click of my life’s odometer. But what?

Sky dive?
Absolutely not.

Take a class?
Meh.

Face lift?
Not just yet.

What did I decide to do? Something I NEVER thought I’d do in a million years.

I went online and started researching… I got recommendations, I looked at portfolios, I collected inspirational images, I interviewed, I made an appointment.

I got a tattoo.

Yes, for some unknown reason I decided I couldn’t live another year without a tattoo, even though I spent my whole life happily without one. Not to mention all those times I told my stepson, who always came home sporting some new drawing on his arms or hands that he absolutely, as long as I had breath in my body, was not going to make such a permanent statement.

My husband offered helpful advice like, “No words, no Harry Potter, and no unicorns.”

As I researched images, I ran across a lot of bad choices. It was getting down to the wire and I still couldn’t decide what to get. It seemed silly to have something tattooed when I obviously had no burning desire for any particular image, yet I stubbornly continued researching. Finally, it paid off. An image I wanted. Plus, I was able to attribute it to several reasonable and concise explanations. 1. My first trip out of the US was to Wales. 2. I am of Welsh descent. 3. I dug it.

The image selected was a variation on the Welsh dragon. I knew it was a good choice when the tattoo shop owner/artist, Rob, actually appeared interested.

Rob told me I could have an appointment about 3 weeks later and he would draw his interpretation of the dragon the night before my appointment. In other words, I would show up for my appointment not knowing exactly what my new forever friend would look like. What the hell. If one behaves insanely, one gets what one deserves.

Speaking of insane, my marketing crew wanted to go with me as a team outing. I decided that me plus five young ladies using my insanity as a team building exercise was probably not in the best interest of my professional future. Therefore, I trekked one afternoon, alone, to the “tattoo parlor.” Meanwhile, text messages from a friend instructed me to drink immediately. I refused on the grounds that alcohol makes you bleed more. (And choose bigger tattoos.) No one wants that. However, my friend, Ms. Bad Influence, was text-tsking up to the moment I lay down on the table, “You’re the first sober tattoo recipient ever.”

So be it. I may be insane and sometimes willfully rebellious, but I follow the rules when it comes to blood.

After an exhibition of what the process was going to feel like, and a warning to let him know if I felt like I was going to be sick or pass out, we began. At first, I was smug. “Piece of cake,” I thought to myself as I stared at the ceiling and made small talk. Eventually though, after over an hour of having the same areas pierced over and over again with needles, the smugness faded. The nerves in my skin sent messages to my brain that said, “Someone is tearing your skin open.” I knew this was not true, but the signals were pretty convincing. I told my tattooed cronies in the shop that if they wanted pain, the should try getting their faces fraxel lasered.

Afterward, I made my way over to the full length mirror to take a look at the finished product. Red, irritated skin surrounded my new friend, the dragon. With a thumbs up and a much discounted payment, (I think he was glad I had not vomited, whined, or passed out), I wandered to my car and buckled up, quickly realizing the first of the challenges associated with the chosen physical location. Seat belts = bad. Waist bands = bad. By the time I got home, anything touching my skin = bad.

And if you think the process of getting a tattoo is painful, the healing process was worse. It lasts WAY more than an hour and involves words like “oozing,” “scabbing” and “sloughing.” At the back of my mind was the artist’s comment as I left the shop, “You can come back for a touch-up after it heals.” I cringe now when I see there are indeed a couple of spots that could be outlined a bit more. Guess who’s going back for a  second round? Hey, at least I’m committed to perfection.

(Meanwhile, I’m a little concerned about what next year’s birthday will involve.)

As usual, my dread of shopping has resulted in a last-minute frenzy. Amazon.com is my new best friend. I think we’ve probably placed a dozen orders, and they’re all due to arrive on Christmas Eve. Before 8:00 PM. This could cause problems since we have one of the three family tree events on Christmas Eve around 6:00. But I BELIEVE. I BELIEVE UPS will deliver. I have to believe that or I will be forced to consider the alternative: “Thank you so much for your thoughtful gift. Yours is in a truck en route to my house as we speak. I’ll drop it off sometime before New Year. You’re welcome.”

Second issue: We have lost the box of wrapping paper, ribbon and gift bags that I collected (hoarded) for the past 20 years. We have climbed into both attics, dug through every closet and looked through every pile in the garage. Nothing. I’m not too panicked about that yet as there are only two gifts that were actually purchased “live and in person,” so I’m not surrounded by unwrapped boxes. Yet. Worst case scenario? I either buy all new supplies or let my lazy side win and wrap all the gifts in newspaper. Wonder if everyone would believe I was suddenly concerned about the environment and was making a “statement”?

Nah. They know me too well. I’ll wrap the gifts in aluminum foil. They’ll resemble well-packaged leftovers.

It’s just that kind of year. I wouldn’t even have all the decorations out if not for Austin. He decided he didn’t like my minimalist Christmas (tree and wreath only), went into the attic while I was at work and dragged everything out. When I got home the stockings were hung by the chimney (with care) and the baby Jesus & Company adorned the side table in the den. If he does the same thing in reverse before January 2nd, I’ll consider my wildest Christmas dreams realized.

Okay, not really. But close. My wildest Christmas dream is being somewhere on an island, with warm temperatures and crystal clear blue water lapping at my toes as I sip a rum drink. Sigh.

Instead, I’m going to enjoy the tried and true traditions of a drive with the boys (and Daisy) to look at Christmas lights, a late night viewing of White Christmas, (somehow I managed to convince Derek to watch it with me when he was younger and now it’s our tradition – often enjoyed by just the two of us), and the Christmas Eve candlelight service that always manages to make me well up when they dim the lights and the congregation sings the last stanza of “Silent Night.”

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Now, pass the eggnog. I’ve gotta’ get creative with the Reynolds wrap.

Once she departed, I drifted over to Brookstone where I bought a FABULOUS new cover and keyboard to go with my FABULOUS new ipad. So far so good except the part that I left out about how my iPhone charger “socket?” is corroded, which is highly unusual and caused my numero uno IT contact at work – to whom I immediately sent an email from the store – to respond to my email with probing technical questions like,

-Are you using some “odd ball” charger?
-Are you working on the beach at the ocean?
-Have you tried not breathing on it?

He has promised to help me Monday if I bring him a flaxen haired fair maiden and two pigs. Not necessarily in that order.

ANYWAY, off I go with my new stuff… oh, I forgot to say I moved the car because this mall is BIG and I HATE malls, so I moved my car closer to where the Brookstone was so I would have to deal with less people NOT GETTING OUT OF MY WAY. (Can you even imagine how stressed I am when not on 10 mg of Valium?)

I do the deal at Brookstone and stroll (or power walk with elbows jutting out to take up as much space as possible so I don’t get knocked over by people) to the nearest exit (right by Macy’s) and drive happily away. Until I am 5 minutes from home in my medicated stupor and realize I did NOT go into Macy’s (the other reason for going to the mall) and pick up my new black riding boots and scrumptious patten leather pumps. You see, I had purchased them days ago but had to wait to pick them up until after the 28th to save 25% – and so they “THE MAN, i.e. Donald Trump” could lure me back into the shoe department.

Instead, I had to return to the mall on Saturday. Saturday. In December. A MALL. I searched – and I am not joking – 40 minutes for a parking space which I found far, far away from my destination and put on my game face. You’ll have to take my word for it. Game face is SUPER SERIOUS and has been known to make people clasp their small children a little closer.

Guess what happens at Northpark Center in December? Holiday Events. LOTS of them.

EVERYWHERE.

I passed Santa’s Toy Shoppe Puppet Theatre, Gingertown Dallas, and the Holiday Performance Area. Not sure what was happening there, but it involved a choir, then I saw them shove a bunch of semi-nude dancers on stage. The only explanation I can come up with for the costumes was that the next group – possibly the Cirque Dreams Holidaze – had absconded with every sequin in the tri-state area.

I made my way back out of Macy’s and crossed the mass of humanity watching the latest festive performance. Then and there, a Christmas miracle happened.

I was speeding unencumbered toward the exit, when from behind me in the performance area, I heard the strains of… Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries – and I smiled in victory.

It all began when Derek arrived home on Tuesday from Mizzou. I knew he was home because he’d parked the car in the driveway which makes it impossible for me to drive UP the driveway and pull into the garage. Austin arrived Wednesday. Once the boys are here, the world revolves around football. Wait, I take that back. Whether the boys are here or not, the world revolves around football. College football.

Despite the drug cocktail, I knew I was licked. As I tossed back a Valium with a glass of Chardonnay I had a brilliant idea. It normally takes a wild pack of dogs to get the boys to bring the trusty artificial tree out of the garage and set it up. This time, I would motivate them in a way they’d never expect.

“Guess what we’re going to do this year with the Christmas tree?” I asked the three statues in the den whose eyes were focused on the TWO television screens that were maniacally playing marching band music as inane announcers solemnly intoned, “They’re really going to have to come out in this next half and take control of the ball or they’re going to lose this game.”

Obviously riveted by this insightful commentary, I tried the dazed trio again. With an enthusiastic holiday frenzy I did not feel I enthused, “You’ll never guess!”

Sigh. “We’re going to forget all about those precious, handmade Christmas ornaments my late grandmother made from SCRATCH and INSTEAD have a football themed Christmas tree. Mizzou, Baylor – all the schools that accepted my sometimes under-achieving yet personable men (including Robert’s TCU) would be represented. Alabama would also be included by default as it is “grandfathered” in. (For a formal ruling, please contact Ralph Holt.) NOW I had their attention. For about 30 seconds.

“Cool.”

“But how?”

“Is this a trick?”

Indeed. How I was going to carry this off was anybody’s guess, but when you’re a Valium and a painkiller into the day, the details just tend to take care of themselves. First, the color theme. We needed to incorporate black and gold, green and gold, deep red and white, and purple and white? Or black? Whatever.

I didn’t even have to Google or Pinterest to know I would have trouble with the black Christmas ornaments. I did the only thing that made sense. I left the house the next morning before the boys were awake and made my way to Michaels.

I still had no plan. Michaels is no place to be without a plan. I headed for the Christmas ornaments, elbowed an adorable gay couple out of my way, and found packages of eight for 50% off. (50% off ornaments, not gays.) I quickly scooped up red, purple, white, green and opted to pick up a couple of packages of clear ornaments as well. In order to destroy the clear glass, I grabbed a can of glossy black spray paint and a nifty glitter spray called “twilight.” A few glitter pens of gold, silver, white, platinum, black and handsful of red, silver and gold letter stickers signaled the end of the shopping trip – until I spotted thick wire-edged ribbon in red, gold and purple. Because you just never know.

I returned home and spread my bounty on the dining room table. Then, I strung the clear glass ball ornaments in the garage and began to spray paint like there was no tomorrow. (And before Robert could come out and tell me I was doing it wrong/and or was going to blow myself up.)

Back at the dining table, a Christmas miracle happened. Derek and Austin pulled up chairs and began “crafting” right along with me. It took us HOURS, and some creative slogans, but I can honestly say it was one of the most enjoyable times I’ve spent with them in ages. The best part about it was we weren’t really DOING anything. There was no TV. Derek played some Christmas music, and we just CHATTED. Truly, I thought they’d drift in and out as I did the work, but they were right there the whole way. We laughed, we encouraged each other, we helped each other spell challenging words like “Missouri.”

Who’d have thought I’d be hosting a Christmas ornament decoration committee with my 20+-year-old boys? For proof, lest it actually be one of those hallucinations mentioned earlier, I have evidence.

Derek and Austin “crafting.”

Christmas miracle number two? By the time I got home from errands this morning, the tree was up and lit. The two TVs were still in place – or out of place – but every miracle comes with a price.

I have no idea how the tree will actually look, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s our first tree to make as a family. I’m just sorry it was overdue. I’ll post pictures when complete. In the meantime…

Update: I was pleased to see the boys insisted on adding some of Grandma’s old ornaments. I guess those little felt and sequined ornaments remind them of their childhoods as well.

Now, if we can only find a Heisman Trophy replica to place on top of the tree, we can all burn in hell together.