We've all seen the Cameron Diaz SNL skit "Back Home Ballers" video. It's hilarious and it's so true... especially the part where Lil' Baby Aidy is bombarded as she takes out the trash by neighbors asking how she's been ... "the same," she says as she slowly backs away. What they left out was how informed your entire family needs to be as they inquire about your every move, how loud your mom's cooking truly is, and how inconsiderate a family of seven can be towards their napping sister.  

I am known to be able to sleep through anything. Football games in Sanford Stadium? Done.  A concert? It's nothing. Sitting straight up in class? That's every day. Playing third wheel with my friend in a bar who is listening to a guy voicing his unrequited love ... snore fest.

Attempting to take a nap in my family's living room that shares an open space with the kitchen and breakfast area ... not so much. It's like sleeping in a war zone and honestly, I'm willing to bet that that wouldn't be an issue for me either.  

This particular snoozefest was induced by a sinus infection that still has no end in sight and the lack of action in Law and Order: SVU. Let's be real — it's the most boring crime show on TV. Anticipating this nap, I came prepared with a pillow, blanket, and a snuggle buddy lovingly dubbed "Lamby" (and go figure, it's a lamb). I settle in and doze off ... for about 20 minutes. This time span commonly referred to as a cat nap is of foreign experience to me — those memes that read "Laid down for a 30 minute nap ... slept for 3 hours" are written specifically for people like me. This afternoon though, the meme's that read "I will cut you" were written with me in mind. 

The first awakening was brought on by my siblings running through the house with the neighborhood kids screaming like they had just been spotted by a giant cheetah and were the targeted gazelle, hooves hitting the ground harder than their heart was pumping blood to their muscles. That's normal, whatever. I grew up with little kids parading in and out of my house, so it's not a new deal. I doze back off to sleep. Then the cooking for Christmas Eve dinner begins, and whoever was putting up the dishes was doing so one at a time and each one just as loudly as Metallica drummer Lars Ulrich beats a drum cymbal during a particularly clashing rift of back beats.

Holy hell, empty the friggin' dish washer already.  

Then the actual cooking begins and the joy a mother feels when their child is happily playing on pots with a wooden spoon struck me once I realized dinner is going to be delicious. But the quickness at which that mother's joy fades once she realizes what she has done was paralleled by mine as the digging for the pot large enough to hold a basin of boiling water continues well past the time it should have taken. In my head, I'm thinking, "Just nix the friggin' mashed potatoes!" But then I quickly take those words back because mashed potatoes are the quintessential side dish to any holiday meal. See picture:

PRAISE. The pot was dug out from the depths of the cabinetry. So I close my eyes right on the brink of dozing off and then my grandmother's dog starts barking incessantly for absolutely no good reason. When I say no good reason, it's for real. This dog is about 12 pounds of endless barking glory with vocal chords that have to be longer lasting than freaking Etta James'. It ceases when it sees fit and its little nails click to a place he finds suitable to stfu.  

Then the music starts. The most festive tunes blaring from Pandora, the ever great Just Timberlake. I know my sister is around in the kitchen somewhere because he's been on repeat in our house since we went to his concert last weekend. I love him, so that sound isn't exactly welcomed but it can be tolerated.  

It's happening. I'm falling back asleep — SIKE. Someone starts banging on the door like their life depends on it, and go figure! It's a neighborhood kid that wants to run around like a gazelle too! 

That's it. About to blow my top. Imagine me ripping through a serene poster that has quoted "It's the little things" and me yelling "THAT ADD UP TO THE MOST FRUSTRATING NAP OF MY LIFE."  

And as that scene plays out in my head, I stop. Why am I the privileged one that even has a family to be annoyed? A family made up of people who have each asked "Who is typing on the computer?" and with the response "I'm writing an article" not sufficient enough, they come look over my shoulder as I type and ask, "Oh is it for that Odyssey thing?" As my sister proceeds to play the only song on the piano she knows, it resonates throughout the whole house. 

Deep breaths. deeeeeeeep breathhssss.  

The point of this stupid little story is that it really is in the little things. Psychologists have proven that little frustrations are what make people crazy, not big stressful events. On the flip side, it's the little things that we should all be grateful for and the holidays is just an extra special time to shed light on that saying without sounding like your therapist. Accept, then push aside, the small inconveniences in your life. Acknowledge that you're about to flip your sh*t over chihuahua barks, and then release the negativity and go pet that little guy.