Vile with a side of grits

One of the most striking things I've realized this year, and am reminded of over and over, is that everything dissipates with time.

I have written before about the Harpy I worked for some years ago. I used to have so many stories about her. I used to loathe her with every fiber of my being.

And now I'm only reminded of her once in a while. But I don't feel her anymore, even when I think of her, which is seldom. I know if I bumped into her on the street I'd have that horrible, visceral, grab-your-children and run for the hills reaction. But thankfully, that hasn't happened in ages.

Betty, however, remembers little things about her vividly. And so today she said, "Don't you think it's time for the terrible Christmas story? The one with the grits?"

So the Harpy, she is a Southern Woman. She's very proud of being a Southern Woman. Even though she's really from up north in the first place.

She came to the office the second and last Christmas I worked there with gift bags for everyone. It was a small office - I think there were 10 or 12 of us. She went to offices one by one to deliver her gifts.

My friend Stacy and I were standing in the hallway as she was on her Christmas delivery mission. She handed me a bag containing a pound of grits and a Christmas tree potholder. Odd, but it's the thought that counts, right?

Each bag, it turned out, contained the exact same thing: a pound of grits and a Christmas tree potholder.

But before she handed Stacy her bag, she said, "And I just found out yesterday that you're Jewish. So maybe you can give the potholder to someone you know who celebrates Christmas."