I have great friends. And they totally get me. Which is nice, because I’m absolutely freaking weird. For example… this week, I had this tiny meltdown over the stamps for the Christmas cards. (My Christmas card psychosis has been well documented.)
Well, that’s how it started. Now I think I’m staging a play in my backyard over Christmas break. Charlie doesn’t know that part, yet. Surprise!
Let me just break down the email chain:
Me: It’s time to decide what stamps to order for the Christmas cards. They should vaguely go with the theme and that decides the color of the envelopes, blah blah blah.
Yes, I am aware no human spends anything remotely like this kind of time on these details, move past that.
I’m going through the USPS website and I announce this whole thing would be easier if Charlie would just let me order Kwanza stamps. It doesn’t go with anything, but it amuses me and pisses off all the right people.
There was some general mumbling, a long pause, then “No. I’m never going to agree to that. Or the Chanukah stamps either, so just don’t even bring that up again. There’s nothing wrong with them, but we don’t actually celebrate those holidays, so it makes no sense.”
Then I’m all, “Well, we’re not sending out Santa stamps! That’s so obvious I want to barf.”
He just stared at me for a long time. Then he walked away, shaking his head, like he didn’t already know he was married to crazy person.
After he vetoed my Ronald Reagan idea, I think we’ve finally agreed on Johnny Cash stamps.
And that is why today, I’m deciding if it’s too morbid to order black envelopes for Christmas cards, if I use a silver pen to address them. Or… if I should just go with the Kraft paper, even though we did that last year.
There was a general agreement that black envelopes with silver pen would be nice. There was some discussion of the “family in black” if we use a black and white photo. I pointed out that they’d all just skipped right on past the crazy to the pretty and that’s why I loved them.
Jennifer, always the sensible one, has to go and be reasonable…sorta:
Jennifer: You people indulge this, you know. But I’ll play along.
Here’s what I expect: Charlie in a black suit with a guitar slung over his shoulder, you in a 1960s dress a la June Carter Cash, Jackson standing in the middle of you wearing his own little black suit. And the message on the card reads, “We got married in a fever, Hotter than a pepper sprout. We been talkin’ ’bout Jackson, ever since the fire went out.”
And yeah. Black envelopes are fine.
I explained there was no way Charlie was dressing up for a *styled* shoot. We were going to have to work with what we had. A cardboard cutout was suggested by Jerusalem. But again, he’s not going for it.
In the meantime, Erin, the fabulous designer, was sending me actual workable ideas. This was starting to get exciting. But my poor husband had already devoted all the brain cells he could in the middle of August to Christmas cards, stamps and envelopes.
Me: So I’m telling Charlie about what Erin already has brewing in her marvelously creative head for these cards.
He walked out of the room. Seriously, he just stood up & walked out of the room without saying a word.
He thinks I’m special.
Then Savannah, who thinks she’s hilarious, made fun of my wise guy.
Savannah: We all think you’re special, honey.
But after Roger or Greg or whatever that wiseman’s name is, Johnny Cash is a step up.
This was a decidedly uncool move. Neal, ok?! His name is Neal. Show some respect. It should be noted here that I adore Neal. No one else, least of all my husband, shares this affection for him.
And that’s pretty much when the wheels came off the cart.
Jerusalem: Imagine in big bold lights over Broadway “Neal: The Lost Magi” ….
Me: These are the sort of statements that lead to me planning ridiculous events and making my husband very unhappy.
Jerusalem: I think there at least needs to be a short story about Neal: The Lost Magi. Or a story about a woman who tries to stage Neal’s play in her backyard, using her tree house.
Who could get upset about that? Of course, if you are a method writer, you might actually have to stage the play to really get inside the insanity of the whole situation.
(I am beginning think Charlie may regret our friendship?)
Kat then offered to play the trampy, alcoholic sister to Neal, so that’s one less thing to worry about. And this, gentle reader, is why I halfway suspect there will actually be a staging of Neal: The Lost Magi sometime at the end of December in my backyard with my wacky band of friends in the starring roles.
Because of the Johnny Cash stamps.