The Joke Is Back, after a fashion.
There is an old joke that runs something like this:
A man goes to the rabbi and complains, "Life is unbearable. There are nine of us living in one very small, one-room farmhouse. It's hectic, it's noisy, it's so very stuffy. What can I do?"
The rabbi answers, "Take one of your goats into the room with you." The man in incredulous, but the rabbi insists. "Do as I say and come back in a week."
A week later the man comes back looking more distraught than before. "We cannot stand it," he tells the rabbi. "The goat is filthy, the stench is unbearable and he is chewing up everything. What now?"
The rabbi answers, "Take another one of your goats into the room with you." The man in incredulous, but the rabbi insists. "Do as I say and come back in a week."
A week later the man comes back looking even more distraught than before. "Now we really cannot stand it," he tells the rabbi. "The two goats are disgusting, the smell is blinding, and are destroying everything. What now?"
The rabbi answers, "Take yet another one of your goats into the room with you." The man in incredulous, but the rabbi insists. "Do as I say and come back in a week."
A week later the man comes back looking utterly despondent.
The rabbi then tells him, "Go home and let the goats out. And come back in a week."
A radiant man returns to the rabbi a week later, exclaiming, "Life is beautiful! The peace, the quiet! The clean smell! We enjoy every minute of it now that there's only the nine of us."
The point being that after a nerve-wracking coupla months, Christmas ought/will be a breeze.
Poppy and I were having speech on this very subject one sunny afternoon. Well, it was sunny ovah heah; dunno about ovah theah, but I digress. The point is that it's not that life is any more stressful now than it was 200 years ago, it's just that the opportunities to deal with that stress are not what they were then. After all, is blowing a Very Big Project really any more stressful than having all your children die of bubonic plague? But back then, you had to milk the cows, plow the back 40, pump water, chop wood, feed the chickens, tend to the other critters, shoe the horses, birth the calves, bale and tote the bales of hay, stack sacks upon sacks of feed and deal with hostile populations. When you do all that every day you tend not to notice so much the aggravators of everyday life.
Anyway, since I don't have to milk the cows, plow the back 40, pump water, chop wood, feed the chickens, tend to the other critters, shoe the horses, birth the calves, bale and tote the bales of hay or stack sacks upon sacks of feed, I have to find other ways to cope, especially since I must deal with hostile populations, in particular my extended family.
The big deal, Iberically speaking, is Christmas Eve. It has been, traditionally, the Worst Night of the year. We all pile into my parents' house and "celebrate" the coming Nativity. But all this festivity realllllllllllllllly frazzles my mom, who gets on her worse behavior, short-tempered and intransigent. This, in turn, brings out the worst in my dad, who becomes mulish and sarcastic. Then they bicker all evening long, reliving bickerings of Christmas Eves Past with gems such as: "This is just like that time in 1979 when you..." No, that last bit is not an exaggeration.
Then the real sideshow denizens arrive, to rub sore spots raw. Everyone wanders into the kitchen--where I loiter hoping to minimize contact with the remainder of the gene pool--and starts dictating how all manner of things are to be cooked. For reasons WELL afield of this post telling the interlopers to bugger off, aided by helpful charts and graphs, is completely out of the question. So I just sit there and take it like a rat. (After all, Christmas Eve takes place during Advent and Advent is a penitential season)
After coming thisclose to blowing a major deal and losing most, if not all of my client base, I can afford to be relaxed and phlegmatic. Sure, these people* (save for two of my cousins) all drive me mental, but they really don't affect me and I only have to see them once a year. In light of what a nightmare things could have been, I can just ignore them.
This Yuletide bonhomie extends to the shopping I need to do, since I haven't done any, since I have been up to HERE with the assorted work-related things. I will look for what I want, and if it's sold out, it's no big. I'll just backorder it and life will continue. If the crowds are too thick, I'll go elsewhere. If there's no parking, I'll walk a bit more. Rather than seeking to forgive myself for X, I remind myself there is nothing to forgive.
Oh, and I bought TFBIM a car for Christmas. The minivan will stay, but only as a backup, utility vehicle. Hauling around 5000 lb (2400kg) of empty space was getting to be a mite painful at the pump. So I went and ordered her an Italian 4-door (Quattroporte in Italian...I love her, but she is a bit of a weird one, huh?) with all the bells and whistles AND it's stick. Photos upon arrival.
I just read the email confirming that we MIGHT take delivery before we go off to Poppytown. But am I fretting? Nuh-uh. I'll just wrap up the paperwork from the order and put it in TFBIM's stocking by the chimney.
So there. Mushy Christmas post to follow tomorrow.
Kisses,
-J.
* I do not wish any of them ill, by any means. I just want to be free of their society.
A man goes to the rabbi and complains, "Life is unbearable. There are nine of us living in one very small, one-room farmhouse. It's hectic, it's noisy, it's so very stuffy. What can I do?"
The rabbi answers, "Take one of your goats into the room with you." The man in incredulous, but the rabbi insists. "Do as I say and come back in a week."
A week later the man comes back looking more distraught than before. "We cannot stand it," he tells the rabbi. "The goat is filthy, the stench is unbearable and he is chewing up everything. What now?"
The rabbi answers, "Take another one of your goats into the room with you." The man in incredulous, but the rabbi insists. "Do as I say and come back in a week."
A week later the man comes back looking even more distraught than before. "Now we really cannot stand it," he tells the rabbi. "The two goats are disgusting, the smell is blinding, and are destroying everything. What now?"
The rabbi answers, "Take yet another one of your goats into the room with you." The man in incredulous, but the rabbi insists. "Do as I say and come back in a week."
A week later the man comes back looking utterly despondent.
The rabbi then tells him, "Go home and let the goats out. And come back in a week."
A radiant man returns to the rabbi a week later, exclaiming, "Life is beautiful! The peace, the quiet! The clean smell! We enjoy every minute of it now that there's only the nine of us."
The point being that after a nerve-wracking coupla months, Christmas ought/will be a breeze.
Poppy and I were having speech on this very subject one sunny afternoon. Well, it was sunny ovah heah; dunno about ovah theah, but I digress. The point is that it's not that life is any more stressful now than it was 200 years ago, it's just that the opportunities to deal with that stress are not what they were then. After all, is blowing a Very Big Project really any more stressful than having all your children die of bubonic plague? But back then, you had to milk the cows, plow the back 40, pump water, chop wood, feed the chickens, tend to the other critters, shoe the horses, birth the calves, bale and tote the bales of hay, stack sacks upon sacks of feed and deal with hostile populations. When you do all that every day you tend not to notice so much the aggravators of everyday life.
Anyway, since I don't have to milk the cows, plow the back 40, pump water, chop wood, feed the chickens, tend to the other critters, shoe the horses, birth the calves, bale and tote the bales of hay or stack sacks upon sacks of feed, I have to find other ways to cope, especially since I must deal with hostile populations, in particular my extended family.
The big deal, Iberically speaking, is Christmas Eve. It has been, traditionally, the Worst Night of the year. We all pile into my parents' house and "celebrate" the coming Nativity. But all this festivity realllllllllllllllly frazzles my mom, who gets on her worse behavior, short-tempered and intransigent. This, in turn, brings out the worst in my dad, who becomes mulish and sarcastic. Then they bicker all evening long, reliving bickerings of Christmas Eves Past with gems such as: "This is just like that time in 1979 when you..." No, that last bit is not an exaggeration.
Then the real sideshow denizens arrive, to rub sore spots raw. Everyone wanders into the kitchen--where I loiter hoping to minimize contact with the remainder of the gene pool--and starts dictating how all manner of things are to be cooked. For reasons WELL afield of this post telling the interlopers to bugger off, aided by helpful charts and graphs, is completely out of the question. So I just sit there and take it like a rat. (After all, Christmas Eve takes place during Advent and Advent is a penitential season)
After coming thisclose to blowing a major deal and losing most, if not all of my client base, I can afford to be relaxed and phlegmatic. Sure, these people* (save for two of my cousins) all drive me mental, but they really don't affect me and I only have to see them once a year. In light of what a nightmare things could have been, I can just ignore them.
This Yuletide bonhomie extends to the shopping I need to do, since I haven't done any, since I have been up to HERE with the assorted work-related things. I will look for what I want, and if it's sold out, it's no big. I'll just backorder it and life will continue. If the crowds are too thick, I'll go elsewhere. If there's no parking, I'll walk a bit more. Rather than seeking to forgive myself for X, I remind myself there is nothing to forgive.
Oh, and I bought TFBIM a car for Christmas. The minivan will stay, but only as a backup, utility vehicle. Hauling around 5000 lb (2400kg) of empty space was getting to be a mite painful at the pump. So I went and ordered her an Italian 4-door (Quattroporte in Italian...I love her, but she is a bit of a weird one, huh?) with all the bells and whistles AND it's stick. Photos upon arrival.
I just read the email confirming that we MIGHT take delivery before we go off to Poppytown. But am I fretting? Nuh-uh. I'll just wrap up the paperwork from the order and put it in TFBIM's stocking by the chimney.
So there. Mushy Christmas post to follow tomorrow.
Kisses,
-J.
* I do not wish any of them ill, by any means. I just want to be free of their society.
Comments
and (in a very rare mention of such on the internet) I will tell you that Christmas Eve with K's family is ususally eventful.
Dysfunctional is an understatement and we are sure to be treated to some drama somewhere.
We do the cooking though, and I suspect K will hide in the kitchen while I make pretty in the dining room.
Nonetheless, as Badger said, WE ARE KEEPING CHRISTMAS.
with great admiration,
It is only through that weird Bataan Death March gene that I avoid curling into a fetal position whimpering "Jingle Bells" in the corner.
-J.