Last night, when I got home, my daughter realized she didn't have the tights or shoes for her Little Red Riding Hood costume. Thus ensued an hour of frenzied searching. Tears (my daughter's). Sobs (my daughter's again). A desperation trip to the local Shopko to purchase a new pair of shoes (my sister made this Hail Mary pass). Shopko wasn't open. By this time, my daughter was in the shower, muttering to herself about how her life was ruined. My wife was planning a trip to Shopko this morning to pick up some footwear that was appropriate and wouldn't induce blisters when the phone rang.
"I found them," my sister said, sounding sheepish.
"Where?" I yelled over my daughter's weeping in the bathroom.
"In my bedroom, where I was keeping the costume," my sister said. "Sorry, I should have looked closer."
I said a silent prayer of thanks to Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost things. I'd just shot him a quick plea a few minutes before, something along the lines of Please save me from spending another thirty bucks on shoes, Tony. "Great," I said to my sister. "Thanks for calling." I hung up and went to give the news to my daughter, who was washing her hair and planning to change her name and move to Zaire so she wouldn't have to wear tennis shoes to her Halloween party at school.
This morning, when I got to work, I took down the Halloween decorations and put up the Thanksgiving decorations. Bye bye, jack-o-lanterns. Hello, turkeys. This changing of the seasons may seem premature to some of you. It won't be the first time I've done something prematurely. (Yes, that was intended to be a rather inappropirate double entendre.) However, I like being ahead of the game. I feel like I've just accomplished the first task of the holiday season. Last night, I got the name of the person from my family for whom I'm supposed to get a Christmas present.
The holly and ivy are on the way!
Marty, patron saint of prematurity.
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| Speaking of being premature... |
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