Murphy’s Christmas Chaos

By: Aidah Wise

Brenda Patterson was determined. This year’s Christmas Eve party would be perfect. Not “good enough” perfect—actual, magazine-cover, Pinterest-board, Instagram-worthy perfect. After years of disasters—like the time the turkey caught fire or the infamous “Eggnog Slip and Fall” that left Aunt Linda with a sprained ankle—Brenda was tired of being the neighborhood punchline.

She stood in her pristine kitchen, clipboard in hand, tapping her pen against her detailed checklist. Everything had been planned down to the minute. Tree shopping in the morning, decorating in the afternoon, and final prep for the dinner on Christmas Eve.

“Family meeting!” she called out, her voice echoing through the house.

Her husband, Mike, ambled into the kitchen, still in his pajamas. Behind him followed 10-year-old Lily, wearing her headphones and scrolling her phone, and 7-year-old Max, who was dressed as a pirate for no apparent reason.

“Let’s go over the plan!” Brenda announced, unfazed by the collective groans.

“Do we have to?” Lily asked without looking up from her screen.

“Yes, because this year, Christmas is going to be perfect,” Brenda said. “No disasters. No chaos. Just a lovely, peaceful holiday.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what you said last year?”

Brenda ignored him.

Act I: The Tree Debacle

The first step on the Patterson Holiday Master Plan was a trip to Tannenbaum’s Christmas Tree Farm. Brenda insisted on a fresh-cut tree this year, convinced it would give the house an authentic holiday vibe.

The family loaded into their station wagon, affectionately nicknamed “Rusty” because of its less-than-stellar exterior. It groaned in protest as Mike started the engine, but to everyone’s relief, it sputtered to life.

When they arrived at the farm, Brenda’s enthusiasm began to waver. The parking lot was packed with minivans and SUVs. Parents wrangled sugar-hyped children while trying to drag oversized trees through the slushy snow.

Mike spent 20 minutes circling the lot before squeezing into a spot so tight he had to crawl out through the passenger side.

“This is a nightmare,” Lily muttered.

“This is Christmas magic!” Brenda countered, grabbing a hand saw from the farm’s supply rack. “Let’s go find our tree!”

The family trudged into the tree lot, where row upon row of evergreens stood proudly. Brenda immediately spotted a tall, majestic tree dusted with fresh snow.

“This is it!” she declared, pointing dramatically.

But as they approached, it became obvious the tree was at least 12 feet tall—two feet too tall for their living room ceiling.

“Next!” Mike said, cheerfully moving on.

The second tree they found leaned to the left like a drunk uncle at a holiday party. The third tree had a bald patch the size of a dinner plate.

“What about this one?” Max asked, pointing to a scraggly little tree at the edge of the lot.

“That looks like the one from A Charlie Brown Christmas,” Lily said.

“Keep looking,” Brenda said through gritted teeth.

Finally, they found a tree that was mostly symmetrical and the right height. Mike knelt in the snow to cut it down, grumbling about how dull the saw was. After what felt like an eternity, the tree toppled over—directly onto Brenda’s foot.

“Are you kidding me?!” Brenda yelped, hopping on one leg.

Mike tied the tree to the roof of Rusty using some twine he’d found in the trunk. It was a wobbly job, but it seemed secure enough. At least until they got halfway home when Murphy’s Corollary (If there’s a worse time for something to go wrong, it will) struck.

The twine snapped, and the tree rolled off the roof and into the middle of the road.

“Pull over!” Brenda screamed.

Mike slammed on the brakes, and the entire family scrambled out of the car to retrieve the tree. Cars honked and swerved around them as they wrestled the tree back to the shoulder. By the time they made it home, the tree was held in place with duct tape, half the branches were bent, and Brenda’s foot was throbbing.

Act II: The Lights Catastrophe

Once the tree was upright in the living room (albeit slightly crooked), Brenda moved on to the next item on her checklist: decorating. She retrieved the box of Christmas lights from the attic, brimming with confidence.

The moment she opened the box, her confidence evaporated. The lights, which she was sure she had neatly coiled last year, were now a tangled mass resembling a bird’s nest.

“I’ve got this,” Mike said, taking the box.

He spent the next hour attempting to untangle the lights, muttering under his breath and occasionally cursing when the cord looped back on itself. Finally, he plugged them in—and half the bulbs were out.

“I’ll just replace the bad ones,” Brenda said, grabbing the spare bulbs from a drawer. She spent another 30 minutes swapping out bulbs, only to discover that now none of the lights worked.

“Let’s just buy new ones,” she said, exasperated.

“At 9 p.m.?” Mike asked skeptically.

“Yes!” Brenda snapped.

The drive to the hardware store was a disaster. Murphy’s Law of Traffic was in full effect, with every red light lasting an eternity. By the time they arrived, the Christmas lights aisle had been picked clean. The only option left was a set of neon purple icicle lights.

“Purple is festive, right?” Brenda said, her voice strained.

Back home, she strung the purple lights around the tree. Combined with the crooked trunk and missing branches, the effect was…unique.

“It looks like Barney exploded,” Lily remarked.

Act III: The Party Fiasco

By Christmas Eve, Brenda was running on caffeine and sheer determination. The tree was decorated (if slightly leaning), the purple lights were blinking erratically, and the turkey was in the oven. For the first time in years, it looked like things might actually go smoothly.

Then the doorbell rang. It was Brenda’s sister, Carol, holding a steaming casserole dish.

“Surprise! I brought my famous tuna casserole!” Carol announced, barging into the kitchen.

Brenda forced a smile. “How…thoughtful.”

Carol’s “famous” tuna casserole was notorious for its smell, a pungent blend of garlic, onions, and fish. Within minutes, the entire house reeked. Brenda cracked a window, but the cold air triggered the fire alarm.

“It’s fine,” Brenda said, fanning the alarm with a dish towel.

Meanwhile, the turkey, which had been in the oven for hours, was still raw in the center. The oven thermometer had broken, leaving Brenda with no clue about the actual temperature.

“Just microwave it,” Mike suggested.

Brenda shot him a look that could curdle milk, but desperation won out. The turkey emerged from the microwave soggy on the outside and frozen in the middle.

As Brenda tried to salvage the meal, Murphy’s Ultimate Law (Anything that can go wrong will go wrong) took full effect. Max spilled cranberry sauce on the carpet. The dog knocked over the dessert tray. Lily accidentally locked herself in the bathroom while trying to take a selfie.

And then the cat, apparently inspired by the chaos, decided to climb the Christmas tree.

“Get down, Snowball!” Brenda yelled.

The cat ignored her. Moments later, the tree toppled over with a crash, sending ornaments flying in all directions.

As Brenda stood in the wreckage, the power went out.

Act IV: The Light at the End of the Tunnel

The guests, now gathered in the dimly lit living room, huddled under blankets for warmth. Someone started singing “Silent Night,” and soon everyone joined in, their voices echoing softly in the candlelight.

Brenda sank onto the couch, exhausted. She looked around at the disheveled tree, the half-melted turkey, and her family laughing together despite it all.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a disaster after all,” she said.

As if on cue, the power flickered back on, revealing the chaos in all its glory: the toppled tree, the blinking purple lights, and Max covered head to toe in chocolate.

Brenda burst out laughing.

“Pizza, anyone?” she asked, and the room erupted in cheers.

That night, as they feasted on pepperoni and garlic knots, Brenda realized something important: Christmas wasn’t about perfect decorations or gourmet meals. It was about the people you shared it with—and surviving the chaos together.

Murphy might have won the battle, but Brenda won the holiday.