“You can avoid having ulcers by adapting to a situation; if you fall in the mud puddle, check your pockets for fish.” ~ Author Unknown

One of my challenges to myself for 2012 was to spend a bit more time reading from books. I read plenty in a normal day, but most of that is done via the internet. As an English major at CU, I spent four years with my nose buried in actual books. I continued reading like a fiend after college and through graduate school. After becoming a mother, however, I found less and less time for reading books. I had to grab a bit of reading here and there, and I got sick of dragging out a book only to read two pages and have to put it down again. I eventually gave up, but I have missed it.

Yesterday I started reading a hardback I checked out of the Columbine library. (Yes. I am old school. I don’t have a Kindle. I still go to the library in person to check out books. Shocking, I know.)  Anyway, I saw this book recommended on one of those lists that you see everywhere that tout the “must read” literature. This particular list was 30 Books Everyone Should Read Before Their 30th Birthday. Okay. Okay. I realize I should have read this book over 13 years ago before I turned 30, but 13 years ago the book didn’t even exist. It was published in 2005.

It’s called Honeymoon with My Brother by Franz Wisner. The gist of the story, as I’ve been able to gather from the book jacket and the 60 pages I’ve cruised through so far, is that Franz was dumped by his fianceé just five days before their wedding in 1999. In a situation that is painful, not to mention embarrassing, Franz went for the glass is half full approach. He hosted his friends the weekend of his would-be wedding and let them comfort him when he needed it most. Then, brokenhearted but trying to move on, Franz asked his brother to join him on what would have been his honeymoon trip to Costa Rica. While there, the brothers decided that they should extend their trip and travel the world while they still have the opportunity. And that is exactly what they do. For two years they traveled, eventually hitting 53 countries across Eastern Europe, South America, Asia, and Africa.

Even without finishing the book, I know I like this guy. When faced with what would flatten many people, Franz chose to see his circumstances as opportunity, his misfortune as a gift. I am all too guilty of being that glass is half empty sort of gal. I sulk. I wallow. I whine. Eventually, I move on, but not without giving up too much time to purposeful misery. I need to pause briefly when I perceive what might be a change for the worse and then adjust my attitude before moving on. Who knows? Maybe if I uncrossed my arms and stopped pouting long enough after falling in that puddle I might just find those fish in my silver-lined pockets?

Few things during the holiday season are as messy, frustrating, and pointless as building a gingerbread house. Yet for some reason, every freaking year, I buy one at the store so I can torture myself and share profanity later. I wish I had an explanation for this annual phenomenon, but I don’t. Let’s just chalk it up to selective holiday memory.

This year, I decided to switch out the traditional gingerbread house for a gingerbread village. The box depicted a lovely, snow-covered tableau with a river running through a small, idyllic gingerbread wonderland. How hard could it be? The buildings were tiny. Certainly I could build tiny gingerbread cottages even if I hadn’t exactly been successful with gingerbread colonials, right? Besides, they looked so cute on the box.

This morning I dug out the box I have been avoiding since I purchased it weeks ago. I put on my most positive attitude and got to building. I knew things were going south when the tiny gingerbread pieces were breaking as I tried to separate them. Still, undaunted, I continued in my quest. I patched pieces together, threatening to pull out my glue gun if necessary. And, even when the plastic icing bag with the perfectly sized decorating tip sprang a leak and started spewing frosting like a punctured artery I soldiered on. Nothing was going to stop me from this sordid holiday tradition, dammit.

When I had three tiny houses sloppily pieced together, hubby decided to join in the fun. He built a house and planned to add it to my village after initial construction. Essentially he was going to deliver a double-wide into the landscape of my charming, middle class community. He insisted it was cuter than any of my houses, so I decided to humor him. We carefully lowered it onto a small plot in my already crowded village. It sat there for just a minute before it started collapsing in on itself. The walls listed. The roof caved. The entire building crumbled, presumably due to shoddy and hasty construction. Steve tried desperately to fix it. He attempted to push the walls back into place. I told him this is what happens when you try to subvert the system and refuse to pull permits before building. I declared the building condemned.

Still, it seemed a little sad to have spent an hour working on my village only to have it end in inexplicable disaster. Then I saw him. Lego Santa. Certainly if anyone could make things better, it had to be the man in the red suit. Maybe he could get his elves to build a Habitat House in place of the double wide?

“Work your magic, Santa,” I begged. “We need a Christmas miracle.”

 

As if my prayer to St. Nick had been answered, a flawless plan to fix this debacle dawned on me. I tossed Santa under the rubble and turned our gingerbread village into the scene of horrific holiday tragedy. The unstable shanty had collapsed under the weight of the fat man himself. As Santa and his overstuffed pack lay under the remains of the decimated double wide, I sipped my latte with smug self-satisfaction. I diverted one holiday disaster by creating another. After all, the holidays aren’t about perfection. They’re about spending time with family, creating memories. We will always remember this year, the year Steve’s double wide collapsed and Santa saved the day.