The cards are from last year's church bookstore After Christmas sale. I remembered to buy Madonna and Child postage stamps before the post office ran out. (I'm sorry Mrs. Rinehart; we don't sell those in January.) I scheduled the Christmas photos early, while there were still autumn leaves on the trees and ground of the farm we used as a backdrop. My mistake was to take the dogs, so our entire "family" could be in the picture. In typical fashion of not thinking beyond my nose, I took Hank the Hound Dog to a genuine, real life farm. With acres of dog, rabbit, cow, horse and general hound-enticing farm smells.
We also brought Nugget, the nervous Miniature Dachshund, who'd only lived with us a month. No stress during that photo shoot. Just a charming family moment of serene togetherness. Scott met us after work. It was my job to bring his sports coat for the photo. The kids leaped from the minivan before it stopped moving, "Daddy you can't wear your coat. Hank emptied his anal glands all over it. Gasp, fresh air!"
Our photographers are miracle workers. They snapped pictures only in-between me saying, "I said, hold onto the dog. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Smile already. Don't touch your sister. I don't care! You're strangling the puppy. What's that smell? Ouch, that's my shin. Look like you love each other. No fake smiles." How the photos didn't show my clenched jaw or steam shooting out my ears is beyond me.
It's also beyond me why I keep putting off writing and sending our Christmas cards. The cards, photos, stamps and outdated scribbled-over address book sit patiently, waiting for me to fill them with good cheer and stuff them in some big blue box. For once, I'm ready to get Christmas cards out before Valentines Day. Why am I procrastinating?
Last year I was late writing cards because I couldn't find a working pen. I refused gracious offers from the kids to use their crayons (They were broken. I only like whole ones.), scented markers (The washable ink would run in the snow.) and sparkly snowflake embossed pencils (The sharpener finally surfaced under the swing set once the snow melted.). On New Year's Eve, while walking to a neighbor's party, I found a ballpoint pen on the ground. I knew what I'd be doing the next day. I was sure to add, "And Wishing you a Happy New Year!" to each card as if I'd planned it all along.
Maybe it's a disease. I just read in Domestic Bliss Magazine about some poor woman in Shuffletown, Florida, with a near fatal case of Christmascardprocrastinitis. I must have it, which leaves me primed to sue Hallmark and at least three pharmaceutical companies. Then next year, I could pay someone to do my Christmas cards for me. On Time.
