Arriving home late that evening, I storm past my family’s greetings, through the kitchen, and straight into my home office. Ten, nine, eight… Deep breath… Seven, six…Holy fuck, keep it together you useless sack of shit. 17 years wasted, only to lose the promotion to a filthy toddler. Memory is a tricky mistress, filling you up and absorbing all you have left until you’re ready to explode.

Brayden’s god damned Brazilian Tarantula stares back at me with its bulbous abdomen propping himself and mocking me. Eight hundred dollars for me to come home every night to an escaped monster filing my paperwork. I wasn’t even consulted. I’m never fucking consulted. Not by Linda, certainly not by my boss.

If I'm trapped, you’re trapped. This cage of a whisky glass should prove nicer than the suburban hellhole I’ve dug for myself.  I slam the glass upside down atop the venomous spider, and make my way around the large mahogany desk. I pretend to understand, but twelve thousand dollars on a dress she hasn’t worn!?

“For fuck sakes!” I shout and slam my fists into the table. The temporary jail shimmies towards the edge.

“Two hundred grand on a car she doesn’t drive!” SLAM. The glass wobbles closer.

The spider watches as the large man destroys his office, every object personally offending him. All the while paying no attention to the danger creeping along the edge of his desk.

I'm all but dead, as my panic begins to ease and reality comes into view. I slump my dead weight into my overpriced chair, and the impact vibrates the glass to freedom. Just as the little monster takes his chance, I place my sweaty hand on top and regain control.

We glare at each other. She does make me laugh. The kids are set for life. I’m only forty-five. We both let out a sigh of relief, and I get myself a new whisky glass.

Xerxes trotted leisurely, unaware of any sense of urgency on his daily walk.

"Come on," Jack laughed as he slowed his pace so the old dog could keep up, "We have to get back before the sun goes down." Xerxes showed no sign of speeding up, but instead stopped to smell a particularly interesting patch of grass.

"Oh, my boy," Jack chided. He watched as the fat lab took his time sniffing, then looked up at Jack, panting and wagging his tail. He looked sternly at Xerxes, but the dog's expression refused to change. Such a happy dog.

Jack couldn't help but smile. He looked at the sunset. They would miss curfew. Again. But it was worth it for the one he loved the most. Jack and Xerxes walked down the street, illuminated by the setting sun and the streetlights that began to turn on.

We had to drive a hundred miles, but we found a farm that would let us come and cut down our own tree – clearly, none of the local farms was selling Christmas trees in June. It’s a little taller than Artie and so thick there could be a nest and we wouldn’t know it (except we checked to be sure there weren’t any).

“I think it is our best tree ever, Beth.”

“Definitely,” I replied, even though he says the same thing every year. Maybe it’s true this year.

When we got home, Artie took a nap in front of the tv after he set up the tree for me. While he slept, I decorated. First the lights. Four strings of multicolored lights, around and around from top to bottom and back again. Then, I put on all the decorations we’ve collected over the years. One for every year of our married life. Thirty-one. Plus, all the Christmas craft projects our son Alex made over the years. The gifts from friends and colleagues. Decorating has always been my job, even when I was a child. When I finished, I was sweating as if I’d just run a marathon (no A/C), but happy with the results. I took a picture then set about making dinner.

Artie came into the kitchen holding his head.

“Dizzy?”

“It’ll pass. Need me to do anything?”

“Set the dining room table?”

“Why not the kitchen? I like the kitchen. Who’s coming?”

Alex, our son, and his girlfriend were coming along with Artie’s sister and her family and my best friend Rachel and her husband Rob. And, of course, his parents, but they live with us, so I never think to add them when running off a guest list.

“Use the ruby red tablecloth and the dishes my mom gave us for our wedding gift.”

“Let me pee first.”

I laughed and continued chopping onions.

“Happy birthday, Mom!” Alex said when he walked in later that afternoon.

“Happy birthday, Beth!” Hannah, his girlfriend, said, hugging me and handing me a bouquet.

“Thank you both so much! I’ll put them in some water,” I said drifting back to the kitchen.

“What’s with the Christmas tree, Mom? I know you love Christmas –“

“Yes, yes I do.”

“But come on! It’ll be dead way before Christmas.”

“Well, son, as it turns out, so will I.”

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He awoke as he did every day: cursing the gods for the most useless superpower of all time. He slipped out of bed quietly, so as not to disturb his wife, made his way into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. As it warmed, he noticed in the mirror that a large pimple was growing on his nose. With some concentration he positioned the head between his index fingers and squeezed them together. He could feel the pressure release and a spurt of mustard painted his mirror. He let out a sigh and stepped into the shower.

Midway through shampooing, he realized that he had forgotten to urinate. He aimed towards the drain and out came a steady stream of lemon vinaigrette. His wife would not be happy about that, he thought.

After showering he lathered his face up with shaving cream and began gliding the razor across his cheeks. Rushing through the process, he slipped and a small cut formed across his neck. Ketchup welled up from the wound which he quickly wiped away.

It was summertime and the trees were blooming. This meant his allergies were at an all time high. He grabbed a tissue and blew his nose, emptying the thick honey mustard that clogged his nasal cavities. Discarding the tissue he returned to the bedroom to get dressed.

His wife was now awake and motioned for him to get in bed. She was always good at making him feel better, at least for a while. Things were heating up and he reached for the Costco pack of Trojans that he kept on the nightstand...

Some time later, he was buttoning up his shirt, lost in thought and gazing at the discarded, mayonnaise-filled rubber at the bottom of the trash bin. Suddenly his wife rushed into the room urging him to turn on the television.

Scenes of chaos met his eyes as the news anchors showed clip after clip of towns being destroyed by aliens.

"This just in! A species of semi intelligent creatures has invaded earth! They have dropped a giant hot dog on New York City and millions are dead. Their only demands are that we humans provide condiments for this wondrous wiener. Due to the global food shortage, we do not have enough to supply them. They are unleashing their anger upon us. We fear that this could lead to the extinction of the human race if something is not done soon."

Condiment man's eyes widened and he began to smile. It was his time to shine.