Merry stinkin' Christmas

I'm not the only one who has to work on Christmas. Doctors, nurses, Wal-Mart cashiers, gas station attendants, the poor guy in the toll booth on I-80/I-90 ... I know, they do it, too. But it doesn't mean I was looking at the cup as half full as we drove back from the promised land of Ohio to the lonely, cold, snowy land of Wisconsin tonight. It was more like I saw the cup had some water in it and I kicked it over out of spite. Kind of like that.

Christmas Eve is usually the night my mom and stepdad and my brothers would open presents. Christmas Day is the Schroeder Christmas party in the church basement in New Cleveland. Dinner is always leftovers from lunch's big meal. But instead of that, I'll be at work here in Oshkosh. Ugh.

The problem with working on Christmas is you go in to work when it's bright out, the roads are clear because people are at Grandma's or home, eating turkey and cookies. When you leave work, it's dark, radio stations have stopped playing the Christmas songs already and the only ones on the road are the ones heading home after a long day of nothing. Jerks.

Last time I worked Christmas Day, I served food to folks and did dishes in a nursing home (I was a dietary aide, not a volunteer ... that'd be different). By the time the hair net came off at 8 p.m., Christmas was pretty much over, and all I had to show for it was a glob of pureed peaches crusted on my white pants and the onset of strep throat. That was awesome.

If I picked up that half-empty cup and put some water back in it, I'd say at least Dave's there this time. At least we'll both be working. May as well both be miserable.