Tis the Season: a short tale of childhood

     When I was nine years old, I became obsessed with the Nutcracker. I think I'd been forced to endure it at a relative's house, or maybe I watched it after school shortly after Thanksgiving. Whatever the case, I was very insistent that I get one for Christmas, despite my parents' puzzled RCA dog looks. And it wasn't the reaction one gets requesting an old-fashioned gift, but more like I'd asked for a laundry hamper."What would you do with it," they asked. "Wouldn't you rather get something a little more... fun?" This led me to make impassioned speeches about the magic of Christmas & the traditions of that time of year, the old-fashioned charm of it all. To look at my then-stepmother, you'd think I was insane. "Alright. If you want it that much..."
     I had vague but important plans for my wooden friend. We were going to dance around in the snow somewhere. He was going to escort me into a magical winter wonderland and fight rats and truly it got fuzzy after that, but I knew he was an integral part of my future. So the weeks went by and I built up this world in my head of my life with the nutcracker, adding a new layer of technicolor goodness each day.
     Christmas finally rolled around and I tore through yards of wrapping paper looking for him. A Bloom County book, a two foot long big rig, an army of action figures. I kept a calm exterior, but inside I was frantic. Where was he? Lastly, I was handed something oblong and smallish. Well, I guess I didn't specify what size I wanted. I tore off the wrapping paper and found... this. I was speechless.

     
     Apparently my parents had never heard of the classic ballet and had been almost worried about my strange choice of Christmas wish, but hey, if it made me happy, so be it. It wouldn't have been the strangest request they'd heard from me. Have a merry Christmas, everyone.
     

Still Life With Fruit

     You know how you hear accounts of old women smacking around muggers with their handbags or random citizens pushing a wrecked car off of a complete stranger in an adrenaline-fueled heroic moment and your heart fills, however temporarily, with admiration for ordinary people turned remarkable by their circumstances? And you idly wonder what you would do in their shoes? Well, I found out.
     Last Friday night I was playing Crack the Case at my fellowship's game night with five of my friends when I noticed someone crossing the parking lot towards us. I watched them approach and when I could make out what they were wearing, I froze. A hooded sweatshirt pulled up over their hair and one of those paper painter's masks that covered his nose and mouth. He bobbed his head to the side, looked through the glass door at our merry scene, and pushed it open.  I want to say I shouted, pulled some Crouching Tiger moves as I ran across the folding tables, did anything at all really, but no. No, I sat paralyzed, thinking "I'm about to die for the $1.25 in my pocket, this is so lame" and did absolutely nothing to warn anyone. As it turned out, it was just this mentally ill kid who shows up sometimes who happened to be "in disguise" that night. But that solves only half the problem. What the hell is wrong with me? Where did my spine go? As my friend Erin said afterward, we found out which Hogwarts house I'm in: It's Hufflepuff all the way, baby.