My neighbor has outdoor speakers, and is playing Christmas music for… someone. Santa, or maybe me. I’m only hearing it on my trips in and out to the car and recycling bin, but it sounds like those records my dad used to get at the Sohio station when I was a kid — a blend of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand. Lots of strings and feeeeeeling.
Having been in one too many stores in the past week, I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with this crap, however. I’m counter-programming with “Every Picture Tells a Story.” The peak of Rod Stewart’s career, in my opinion, although obviously this isn’t shared by the rest of the world.
My back hurts, but my work is pretty much done. Alan can handle the little bit of wrapping that remains, and I’ve turned out a collection of dishes that do not go together in any way, but will serve for our Christmas fare, which will be sort of haphazard and brunchy. There’s an egg thing, a bean thing, a sweet potato bisque. And while I didn’t do a buche de noel, I did something similar — chocolate roll. It’s imperfect, nothing like the picture, but it looks more like a log than I thought it would:
The last stop today was the liquor store. I asked for a bottle of vodka and a straw.
So, the big day is upon us. I’m taking a few moments to enjoy the tree and a glass of wine. And while I don’t have much to report, I do wish you all a pleasant holiday and last week of the year, however you choose to spend it. I’m thankful for all of you who read and comment here; every day you show up is a gift to me, and I appreciate it.
Just so Bill O’Reilly hears it loud and clear, then.