Snowballs in December

My life has been snowballing. Not the white, cold kind that you can have fun launching at people (and missing… if you’re me). The metaphorical kind that picks you up and throws you downhill, gathering every insignificant twig and rock until you’re a mass of ugly problems blown out of proportion.

In my defense, my snowball began with something pretty huge: my car got repossessed. Long story, but I will say that I had, in fact, been paying the company. I’d just been paying someone else’s loan.

With that very large base, every tiny thing has become a huge problem to my overly emotional self. The pinky I managed to cut off nearly a month ago yet has remained swollen has become a constant irritant. Steve needing a new tooth, while not overwhelming at the time, makes me wonder at the irony that a guy who could actually USE those worthless wisdom teeth happens to have none.

There is more, but I will not speak of it again until I can actually find the humor in the situation.

Ah, distincly I remember. It was in the bleak December and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease from sorrow…

I Smell a Rat…

Several years ago, my grandmother made me an awesome Christmas present: a bag full of Indian corn (which doesn’t pop) that you can put in the microwave for about 5 minutes and it will stay hot for well over half an hour. I call it a “bed buddy,” because for a long time its primary use was to heat up my bed before I got in it. Now it serves an equally useful purpose: cramp killing.┬áThis morning, I had a desperate need for this use.

However, we also have an awesome pet rat. Normally, I love her to death. But she liked the smell of that Indian corn so much that she tore into my bed buddy a few nights ago. I had not yet repaired it, so there I was this morning with killer cramps and no cramp killer.

I took a pair of Steve’s old jeans and sat there patching the bed buddy while my abdomen tried to tear me apart from the inside out. The only thing that kept me from letting the rat out and using it for target practice was the certainty that God wouldn’t help me hit her, and without His help, I don’t stand a chance of hitting anything I aim at, let alone something the size of a small rodent.

Now the holes are patched, my life is bearable, and the rat is safe… for now…