I don’t know about you, but I’m glad the holidays are over. For the whole month of December and part of January, I’m just worthless.
Apparently it’s not my imagination.
On Wednesday, I received a text from Economic Development Director Joey Grisham. He was responding to a phone message I had left. He was out of the office, but would return my call the next day, he said.
Grisham then informed me that a recent issue of the paper had referred to him as Joey Bishop. He was a good sport about it. He followed it with a .
“At least it was Bishop and not Buttafuoco,” he texted – a reference to former auto body shop owner Joey Buttafuoco whose wife was shot and wounded by Amy Fisher, a.k.a the Long Island Lolita, with whom Buttafuoco had had an affair.
“That was just cuz I didn’t know how to spell it,” I retorted via text.
For more than a month now, I’ve had too much sugar, too much caffeine and too much holiday silliness. The highlight of my New Year’s Eve was a battery operated whoopee cushion with a remote control that one of my sisters-in-law got as a present from a cousin who has an adolescent sense of humor. (But, hey, who am I to judge?)
It was on Christmas Eve that I started thinking I may be overdoing the gaiety.
The house was full of family. The smells of Christmas Eve dinner filled the kitchen. Stockings were being stuffed in the den while a cluster of family members enjoyed a board game and still others were engrossed in conversation. I was wearing my festive red shoes with the pointy toes.
For reasons I can no longer remember – probably because of the severe head injury – I went dashing up the stairs. At the landing, I tripped and went flying like a reindeer on speed. Next thing I knew, my head dang near crashed through the wall, like a politician with a stomach virus. (Get well, Hillary!)
I still had my two front teeth, but at that point all I wanted for Christmas was my dignity.
As I lay in an ungainly heap on the landing with stars swirling around my head, staring into the bright white light (a fluorescent bulb), I wondered if my fall from grace was comeuppance for the naughty stunt I had pulled at mass at my husband’s church. It was right before the service was to begin and he had just sat down after kneeling solemnly in prayer.
I’ll spare you the details, but I will say that I thought I had been subtle about it.
My husband leaned in to whisper to me.
“Don’t look now,” he said.
“But there’s an older gentleman who’s looking over at us and grinning from ear to ear. I think you just made his day.”
Man, I’m glad the holidays are over. Aren’t you, Joey Bishop?
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