The Twelve Days of Christmas

Because it’s a two-blog-post kind of day.  And because it’s exactly 12 days until Christmas.

Every year on this day, I would rush out of bed (actually on time) and race down the stairs.  Under the tree would be a red bag (which I still have) with the words written in gold glitter glue “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” 

There were twelve things in it.  A tradition my grandparents started when I was too little to really remember and didn’t stop until I was nearly married.  Every day for twelve days I would find in the bag an assortment of  small boxes with a number on each one telling me which day to open it on.  I would shake them, rattle them, try to figure out what was inside, and often times I kinda admit would slit the tape on the box so carefully that it could be replaced and appear as if nothing was ever amiss.  However, Nana always put things in boxes she could find.  So the element of surprise was always there and I eventually gave up with the tape slitting thing.  Given the fact that it was never once successful.

I don’t remember what the gifts were.  Some were ornaments, some where special things that I still have.  But the gifts weren’t that important, in the long run.  The memories were.  And I’ll always hold dear to my heart the special things my grandparents have done for me.  Like letting me skate in the living room.  And stay up way too late.  And eat cookie dough with our fingers.  And laughter.  Lots and lots of laughter. 

Switched Digits

I had a question.  I don’t exactly remember what it was.  But needless to say, it was important enough to call.  So, I mindlessly speed dialed my favorite husband.

“Hola?”

This is not abnormal.  It’s frequent that we answer the phone in wierd ways.  Like, “Yolanda’s house of love” or the all time favorite, “Joes Tacos and Burritos”.  And then there’s the ever popular “What?” — drug out in a really fake raspy voice that always makes me laugh. 

“Hola senior,” (I can’t get my keyboard to do the Spanish symbols– so, insert bad accent here.)  I say.  “Como estas llamo?” Because I think that’s how you say, “what’s up” but I can’t really remember.

He spouts something in Spanish that I can’t really understand.  “Rusty, slow down!” I say.  And then it dawns on me.  Yes, Rusty had a year of Spanish more than I did…but should he really be this good at it? 

“Say what?” I ask, totally confused now. 

He repeats his Spanish phrase once again and that’s when I realize.  This is not Rusty.  Nor do I like his tone. 

Why is there a stranger on the other end of my phone? 

Prank answer.  He’s got someone with him that knows Spanish and is answering the phone!  Ha! I’ve figured it out.  I’m suddenly very proud of myself.

“Put Rusty on the phone,” I say harshly with all the threat I can pull out of my voice.  “Now,” I add, noting that I sound quite a bit like my mother.  But that’s beside the point.

The man says something else in Spanish that sounds different.  Maybe its just me.  But he sounds confused too.  I look at my phone and Rusty’s photo is staring back at me and the number says “Rusty Cell”, but seriously? 

Great.  Now I’ve scolded some stranger.  My only hope is that his English is about as good as my Spanish.  Maybe he thinks I said something nice.

“Camilla?” The man says after a few moments of akward silence.

Camilla?  I shake my head.  My eyebrows are hurting from being bunched at the center of my forehead.  I’m totally lost. 

“No,” I say.  “Cassie.”

“Oh, lo siento,” I actually know enough Spanish to understand that one.

We hang up. Apparently, our service provider has been having trouble connecting calls to the right people.  Now, I wish I would have paid a little bit more attention in Spanish class.  Or taken an extra year or two.  But then, I wouldn’t have had the laugh.