Christmas Letter

Every Christmas, Barb, my sister, sends out her infamous Christmas letter. Barb is a wonderful writer with a gift for sarcasim. In fact, what I enjoy even more than reading them is listening to Kristie read them, for she is always laughing and slapping her side and reading me little snippets from them.

Barb fills the cards with embarrassing details that her husband and kids have done all year. Kind of like a year end blooper special. Whenever we get together, one of the kids will recount something humorous that they did and then groan, "Yeah, that will probably go in the Christmas letter."

Barb must keep a running list somewhere of all the goof ups.

Thankfully, she never includes extended family in her letters, so I've been safe. However, this year she included an incident that happened last year around this time with Dad that I was involved with that really got us laughing. I'll include it below -- (I had forgotten all about this episode, but it brought a good warm chuckle when I read it)

"My letter wouldn't be complete without telling at least one story about dad -- evein if I run the risk of hearing him bellow "B-A-R-B-A-R-A" in my dreams one night. Dad had been in the hospital for a few days after Thanksgiving last year and shared a bathroom with a man in the next room. Since the medical staff wanted to measure his urine output, Dad normally brought the measuring pan-style container from the toilet in the bathroom to a shelf in his room. When the nurse came in, he would then point it out to her and she would make note of the amount. My brother, Kurt, happened to be visiting him one afternoon when Dad realized he had forgotten to remove the contianer from the toilet in the bathroom. Irritiated with himself, he told Kurt to go get the contianer and bring it into his room. (Now I have to interject here. Dad was adamant that it was his urine container. I said, "How do you know?" To which Dad replied, "I can tell my own urine!" Both Kristie and I were dying laughing. "What do you mean?" I asked. "I can tell," he replied. "How on earth can you tell? Is your's a different color than everyone else's or what?" I said nearly keeling over. "Oh good grief. Just bring it in here. It's mine. I know it," he grumbled. Not wanting to argue with a sick man, I did as I was told) Kurt, who is totally disgusted by nearly any bodily function (and this is true - to interrupt again - I used to follow Barb's kids around with a wash cloth whenever they visited because, as babies, they drooled - and that freaked me out) let alone body fluid, told him, "I am not TOUCHING that thing." But Dad was adamant -- it had to be done. So Kurt (who is, as I said, a little squeamish with these things) diligently obeyed and went more than a little reluctantly into the bathroom. Sure enough -- the container was there and it was full. I mean PLUMB FULL! He gingerly worked it loose from the toilet and, walking very slowly so as not to spill it on himself, brought it over to Dad. Dad took one look at it, clucked his tongue in a disgusted fashion and said, "KURT! That's not MINE!" Kurt said, "What do you mean, it's not YOURS!?" Daid said, "It's that other guy's -- he spits in his! Can't you see?" So poor Kurt had to turn around and make a return journey to the bathroom with an open pan of urine that was not even family-related. I bet he didn't eat for a week! (Sadly, my appetite was not affected!)