Fed Up!

Fed Up!

Everyone is in full on crazy mode right now. Hanukkah and Christmas are just around the corner, weather has been a complete mess for a large swath of the population and I still need to figure what to get my Brother In-law.  Since my surgery last month I have become pretty good at saying – “nope, not doing it” and Christmas is no exception.

I have gotten gifts for my kids, the hubs and my nieces and nephew…I’m just not stretching much beyond that this year. I may attempt to make biscotti, maybe not. I tried to bake something last week and it made me awful to be around. I go into a weird rage when I attempt to bake, it isn’t pretty.

Clearly I’m not the only one feeling the pressure, a local mom posted this picture in a Facebook Group –


Sure, it’s all fun and games until little Timmy goes to school and starts discussing how Snowball landed on his dinner plate and it takes a few beats for his first grade teacher to realize that mom has probably been hitting the eggnog a little too hard this year. Or perhaps the offspring of this stressed out parent is observant and wonders why Snowball’s right leg is longer than his left (inquisitive little monster). Then dad has to come up with some convincing backstory on the fly about a sledding accident in 2004. I tend not to lie simply because it’s too exhausting.

It’s not just the holidays making me nuts, it’s the recovery from my ACDF. The other night I went to a women’s networking holiday party. It was great to get out and feel human again. Bonus I ate a meal that I didn’t shop for, cook, serve or clean up – that is always a plus. I got a bit panicked when it was time to leave because a snow squall had come through and I was afraid of slipping on ice and snow. My friend graciously walked me to my car as I held on to her arm (just in case). Then I had a white-knuckle ride home on black ice. I am usually excellent about driving in the snow – since the surgery I’m afraid of getting into a fender bender or skidding off the road. I’m sure this will calm down as I get further into recovery but right now I’m feeling fragile and it effects me in ways that never have before. I don’t like this new version of chicken-shit me, not one bit.

I went back to a modified work schedule a couple of weeks ago. The modifications mean I do not drive Rob and Laura around anymore, not for the foreseeable future. Instead I visit them at home, run solo errands and do some cooking for them. This has been working out except one day last week when Laura forgot I wasn’t driving them anymore. You haven’t lived until a 93 year old woman is pissed off because you won’t take her to the laundromat. Luckily a driver was coming the next day to tackle that task.

One of the new chores is to assist Rob with the spraying of the fruitcakes. I didn’t know this was a thing until about a month ago. Rob made 22 fruitcake loaves and one wreath back in November. Since then, he sprays the bounty every Wednesday. The loaves each get 5 sprays of brandy and then they are sealed in a Ziploc bag and placed in an airtight container. The wreath gets about a dozen sprays. I’m fairly certain the wreath is an alcoholic, it’s a broken mess. I didn’t get the specifics but I did see the results and I explained what a smash cake is to my friends. We have deemed the boozy treat a smash wreath and that should totally be a thing.

This week was special because it was time to remove the cheesecloth. Pieces of liquored up fruit were falling off like a drunken avalanche. Rob (a non-drinker) was scooping up the bits like a kid who just busted up a Pinata. I’ve never seen a 95 year old move with such cat like reflexes. After a few fistfuls his aim was off on the spraying and the right side of my body smelled like a bar at 11:59pm on New Year’s Eve. Luckily I made it home without getting pulled over. I may need to change my sobriety date.

On the plus side, I still have my sense of humor and luckily I’m not the only one….this gem popped up on Facebook the other day. I like this an unreasonable amount. Happy-whatever-you-celebrate! 80406706_1768755406589367_978716565929197568_n.jpg



10 responses »

  1. As always Bryce, I appreciate you providing me with some yucks this morning. Glad to hear you’re on the mend… sorry to hear Rob and Laura don’t have you taking them places… Those were great stories! Happy Whatever-you-celebrate to you too! xo

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks Emily – I only feel safe in my tank of a vehicle right now which is a high profile SUV….can’t see myself hoisting 90-somethings into my vehicle and hoping it goes well. I’m very cautious these days. Here’s to a great 2020!


  2. This made my morning, as I’ve felt what you do about the holidays, cooking, having to shop for family etc. But all in all……..alcohol is the answer! lol

    You will be your old self in no time, up and running around, baking and stuff. Have a very Merry Christmas and New Year my friend!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. TLW was done with everything early and has started on next year! I’m not done hating this one yet!

    Christmas should be simple…but it’s not!

    Hope yours is happy and hope you feel better soon.

    And you know that should have been Fed UP!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Here’s hoping the post-surgery trepidation passes just like the season–or rather not like the season, because happy holidays, whatever you celebrate, should leave happy memories that carry you through until the next year, but the surgery should just get behind you and stay there.
    And Rob is a riot. He reminds me of how my teetotaler grandmother would get mad at my grandfather for eating the rum balls my grandmother made. “It’s okay,” he’d say, “the alcohol gets baked out,” and then he’d wink at my mother because he knew damn well she added the rum after cooking.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Now that’s a shelf elf I can get behind! I’m glad you’re feeling better and taking it easy. And be careful on the ice–I fell myself last week, and my knee turned all shades of the rainbow. Every day, I would show Ken and he would feign interest…

    Liked by 1 person

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