Let me back up; I've got to mention the only things I felt "missing" in my life when Tan and my sister got around to asking what I wanted for Christmas. Talk about a stumper.
The things I want _ like the boom-boom room of life and all its accoutrements _ I can't list or afford. Not right now. So what's the use of asking for anything else?
(This they should know and be guided by by now: I only play one make of golf club; I only wear one brand of sportswear; I only wear a certain denim; I only like neutrals; I'm old school; and I only root for Notre Dame.)
Got that Santa?
Deep down, though, I think she knew I was desperate to replace my old Lab, Coffee, who dropped dead on our deck last Easter while, thankfully, Tan and Scottie were at the hippie church and I was either recovering from a hangover or getting ready for work.
Long story short: I told Tan that "more of those button-down shirts (same style and size as last year) would do it. And I specifically ask my little sister, Traci, for "The Dangerous Book for Boys."
I got both. Perfecto. Throw in a better-than-expected double-date on New Year's Eve and this bro' couldn't ask for more from the holiday season. (Less drama? Yes, Please. But let it end there.)
Fast forward to the "blizzard". We knew it was coming. The local news played it 48 hours in advance like the coming closure of every grocery/gas/medication/water source within broadcast range. And we bought in. We ate and (I, mainly) drank like royalty. Both grandmas here; content as could be. Scottie indulged to the nth degree. Tan's "a place for everything..." outlook confirmed amid the thwarted chaos.
Me? All I cared about was following through on the promise of taking the boss man sledding if it indeed snowed enough. I'd learned enough weeks back from a futile search for age-appropriate hockey gear he craved (because his buddy, Miles, brought a stick to daycare) to know that sled-shopping in Atlanta would be ridiculous.
My solution was paying $15 for a sheet of quarter-inch-thick plastic long and wide enough bor us both to lie back and glide on. The snow fell as expected. Thick, slick and soft. After about six runs, down short 45 degree slopes at our neighborhood park, our sheet-sled snapped into
jagged pieces.
No worries We live in the right 'hood. We'd been trying to get our picturesque sled on near another dad with his two boys. Turns out he was a contractor who happened to keep sheets of stiff, inch-thick insulating foam in his garage. He had an extra; offered it to us. Scottie obliged. Had a blast. Didn't crack his skull. Happy ending.
The puppy, to my surprise, has been embraced from the get-go. I sense someone knows how great her guard-dog potential is and commends me by pampering her.
And, it goes without saying, I look good in button-downs.
As for that "Dangerous Book"... the raging best-seller that has spawned a girlish spin-off that's now out-selling it? It still sits at the foot of our bed, unopened since Christmas Day. I can't wait to read and see what's in it. But I'm still compelled to just improvise with the time and energy and ideas at hand.
Before I GO on forever (and I could) do you have a better tale of making do?
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