Bits and Bobs — Carrie Muller

Well, chaps, it’s here. You’ve done it. You survived the literal (and hopefully figurative) darkest days of the year. From now on, things are only going to get brighter.

How do I know?

Because we’re gonna make them brighter. We’re gonna take every day from now on and we’re gonna CRUSH IT BETWEEN OUR FINGERS. We’re gonna WRING THE LIGHT out of each and every hour. We’re gonna CHEW ‘EM UP and SPIT ‘EM OUT. Then we’re gonna STEP ON ‘EM. GRIND ‘em into the GROUND beneath our HEELS. And then maybe…I dunno, HOP ON ‘EM A BIT.

The pilot light in our water heater keeps going out. At first I assumed it was our wily possum friend, Patches, up to his old mischief. But then, the third time I found myself sprawled out on the cold, concrete floor of the basement, squinting to see if the little blue flame would decide to stay on, I thought maybe it was a disgruntled ghost snuffing out the flame.

If I can’t take a hot shower, the ghost whispers menacingly, then nobody can!

Apparently the professionals say it’s a venting issue, but I’m not ready to rule out the supernatural.

Hopefully we’ll be able to get someone out here by mid-January to fix the issue. An exterminator, maybe. Or a priest.

Is there a word for times when you say something weird, maybe in a funny voice, but you know it’s not actually “funny” in the strictest sense of the word, and so to answer “Just joking” when someone asks, “What was that?” feels like a drastic overstatement?

The reason I ask is because this happens to me quite frequently. I forget people can hear me—even when I’m mumbling—and it leads to all sorts of uncomfortable moments.

Like one time, I was in this club, and we were discussing how to collect some information from other members. The president said, “They can just email it to me.” Naturally, I punctuated the decision by squealing, “To MEEEEE!” like in “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Slowly, the president turned his gaze upon me. He blinked. “No,” he said firmly, as if I were aiming to usurp his authority with naught but the power of a ringing falsetto. “To me.”

Everyone at the table stared at me. My face flushed hot as I fumbled for words. What I wanted to say was, “You misunderstand me, sir! The last thing I would EVER want is more responsibility. I was just…being Freddie Mercury.”

But I didn’t say that. And do you know why? Because in that moment, my brain was saying, “Are you sure that’s Freddie Mercury in Queen? Are you sure that’s even a Queen song? If you’re not a hundred percent sure, best not to say anything, because saying the wrong name would make things super awkward.”

GOOD CALL, BRAIN, I said to myself. So, to avoid any unseemly awkwardness, I just sat there, wide-eyed and silent. Like a lawn ornament of a startled toad.

Anyway. Should we call those moments “brain dribbles,” maybe?

Since tomorrow is Christmas Eve Eve, I figure I should at least acknowledge the holiday. It’s trying its best, despite the circumstances, to muster up some cheer. It’s not Christmas’s fault. It’s also not technically Christmas’s fault that I plan to spend tomorrow drinking eggnog by the gallon, but that’s where we are.

I have been thinking about the Nativity story, though. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about the poor citizens of Bethlehem. How annoyed they must have been with that miraculous star hovering over their town while they were just trying to get some sleep. After all, nobody had the 25th off back then. They all had to get up and work in the morning. And suddenly, out of nowhere, this crazy light display shows up, like Clark Griswold just moved to town? Not really an ideal way to ingratiate yourself to the locals, li’l Prince of Peace.

Anyway. Season’s greetings, happy holidays, joyful yuletide, what-have-you. I hope your Christmas is merry and bright.

(But, like, not too bright. Not like you live next door to an Arby’s. Or a manger. Just…a normal amount of luminosity.)