Well, I’m back from my small Christmas break, but that doesn’t mean the trauma has ended. Oh, Christmas was great. I got to spend time with my three nephews, girlfriends of two of them (one of which is now a fiance!), and the rest of my family. However, getting to Christmas day was a chore.
If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you would have read an update that went like this:
I just dropped a whole jar of cherries on the driveway. #lostmy cherry
That was on Friday afternoon. I’d gone to the grocery store with the specific task of buying pineapples, cherries, and honey for the ham my mom planned to cook for Christmas. After being caught in traffic for nearly an hour on the way to the store and then another hour getting home, I was in a bit of a huff. (I may have mentioned a few million times how much I don’t like shopping or going to the store.) I was so glad to be home, I practically slammed on my brakes and breathed a sigh of relief.
Then it was time to get the groceries. I opened the hatch of my HHR and started grabbing bags. Unfortunately, I grabbed the wrong one and the cherries slid out of the car and splattered on the driveway. It looked like I’d just killed something with the cherry juice all over the place. I was hopping mad. I hate when things like this happen, but since I already knew I had to go to the store again (because I forgot to buy honey), I was okay. Sort of. I was still very displeased.
On Saturday morning I braved the wild Christmas Eve traffic. I wasn’t planning to go to an actual grocery store because I know better than that. Ha! I stopped at Walgreens to pick up the cherries and honey as well as a few last minute Christmas gifts. I stalked down the small grocery aisle only to find they didn’t have any cherries. Well, damn. I’d have to go to another, smaller store because there is no way I’m going to the damn grocery store! I went to another store that sold a few more groceries. I went up and down each aisle searching for cherries. I looked everywhere and other than chocolate covered cherries, I couldn’t find any.
But I wasn’t finished. Oh no. I stopped at a gas station. Surely they had to have one very small jar of cherries. The station I chose had a smaller selection than Walgreens did and I finally asked the attendant if they had any. She gave me a look like she thought I’d lost my mind—maybe I had—and said no. That was it. I was defeated. I refused to go back to town to the grocery store and this was the last place I could think of near home that might have cherries.
In the end we didn’t have cherries for the ham. I’d given up. The great cherry chase was over. It was only later that my sister said, “I had a jar of cherries at home.” I might have glared at her, but I let it go. This is the last I’ll ever mention hunting for cherries. It’s a sore subject for me. In fact, I might boycott ham altogether.
I hope your Christmas was wonderful!