Page 8 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
He’s right about that.
“You’re currently unemployed. You’re single. And you’re living with your parents in their basement, crocheting because you have nothing else to do with your life besides visit the senior living center on Thursday nights, where you puzzle with people whose names are Murgatroyd, Harold, and Henrietta.”
“Murgatroyd, Harold, and Harriet,” I correct him.
“My mistake.”
“It’s forgiven.”
“Seriously, Betty. What are you doing with your life that could possibly prevent you from accepting my proposal?”
Nothing.
There is absolutely nothing holding me back other than fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of moving. But most importantly, fear of failing.
After closing down my year-round Christmas shop—my baby—in Fort Collins after a year of being opened, I just don’t think I can stomach another project with the possibility of failing once again.
Not to mention I wasn’t mentally prepared for such a proposal. When my family came to Kringletown for Thanksgiving, I assumed it would be a nice family get-together where we played some games, ate some pie, and fell asleep watching football, but then Uncle Dwight asked if I wanted to go for a walk, and since I had four slices of pie, I thought it would be a good decision to walk some of it off. I had no idea he’d take me to a piece of land that he purchased ten years ago, when he was a fresh twenty-year-old, looking to invest the money his mom’s father left him.
And it is quite the piece of land.
Tall, full pines, a picturesque view of the mountains where the trees part, and a ton of acreage where you can do pretty much anything.
But Uncle Dwight has a plan. He wants to build a Christmas farm.
As he pitched it, a place where people can come and celebrate the season. Where they can enjoy hot chocolate they purchased at the hot chocolate bar and sit around the fireplace while live music plays in the background. A place where visitors can see the inner workings of Santa’s workshop, a glimpse into the North Pole, with shops and rides. It... it actually sounds like a great idea. And the crazy thing, he wants me to head it up.
He nudges me with his foot under the table. “Come on. Say yes.”
I shake my head. “I... I don’t know. This is all such a surprise. I have a life in Fort Collins. I?—”
“Tell me about your life again.” He lifts a questioning brow.
“My family is in Fort Collins.”
“Which is drivable,” he counters. “It’s not like you’re moving to Alaska.”
“Yes, but . . . Buzz is in Fort Collins.”
“And who is Buzz?” Uncle Dwight asks.
“My tarantula,” I answer. “And he cannot live without me. I bet he’s barely surviving now, being all alone.”
“Is Buzz in a cage cemented to the ground?”
“No,” I answer.
“Then Buzz can move with you.”
Yes, I saw that coming, but I thought I’d give it a shot.
“What, uh... what about my clothes? I have clothes in Fort Collins.” It’s a very weak argument. Even I know that. But I’m grasping at straws over here.
Uncle Dwight levels his gaze at me. “Betty, you need this. I know what losing the store did to you. I’ve seen how it’s decimated your spirit. And yes, we have all given you time to run through the emotions of losing something so special to you, but now it’s time to pick yourself up and do something new. Try your hand at creating and building again.”
God, why am I feeling emotional?
I don’t want to feel emotions, not in front of Uncle Dwight.
