Naughty, Not Nice

I had a million things to get done this weekend. In order to maximize my time, I squeezed my Sunday grocery shopping in on Saturday. Things were zipping along at a brisk pace, when I got stuck on my last item. Who knew sage would be hard to locate? I spent about 8 minutes searching through the spice aisle. Since I was standing still, and not zooming around the store, I became aware of the endless Christmas carols that were playing. They became more annoying the longer I searched for the damn sage. I finally turned into Crabby Old Man and started to mutter under my breath about whatever hideous version of “Jingle Bells” was being sung. Fast forward to Sunday night... The annual neighborhood Christmas carol event was scheduled, and in keeping with tradition, I was intent on keeping my perfect Non-Attendance record. There is something about carolers that bothers me. They aren’t scary like clowns or people with clipboards. I just don’t know what I’m expected to do when I encounter them. Should I throw money at them? Should I join in and sing along? Should I smile and nod insanely as I’m serenaded? None of these choices floats my Christmas boat. So Sunday evening, when the doorbell rang... twice... I did nothing. I didn’t really need to. My dogs barked their heads off as they tried to bite the front door. I couldn’t have opened the door if I’d wanted to, and I didn’t want to. I felt a little guilty, but nothing could have forced me to endure one more Christmas song for the day. If asked where I was during the festive hootenanny, I’m going with my standard Laundry Room Mishap excuse. Somehow the dryer door hit me in the head and I fell into a coma until the neighborhood carol event was over. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. And I’m also destined to go to Naughty, Not Nice Hell someday.