The year totally heard me talking smack about it and decided to stack the decks in its favor. This took the form of Not So surprising me with a pre-arranged date at bluehour, the seriously swanky, seriously exciting restaurant I’ve been dying to go to ever since we moved to Portland. He got us a babysitter and everything. I got to go out on a date with my husband! And…oh my god. Year, you are totally forgiven for all the sucking, because I had THE BEST TIME EVER.
I just finished (almost) all my holiday shopping, and I no longer have a creeping sense of doom about this Christmas, which has got to be good, right? Because Christmas often equals creeping doom. Everyone knows that. We’ve totally failed to impart any sense of holiday spirit to the kid, but he’ll figure it out soon enough.
Besides, houseful of atheists? Not exactly the best advocates for the socially accepted version of Christmas. In my family, Christmas was a firmly secular affair, which heavy emphasis on a) food and b) Santa Claus (in that order). The only time there was any mention of Jesus or mangers was when we children started spouting Christmas carols. Which I still like. Sort of.
Although this year there’s been a lot more of Mike Doughty’s I Hear The Bells than anything involving wise men or strategically placed stars.
I hear the bells
They are like emeralds, and
Glints in the night
Commas and ampersands
Your moony face
Your inner mind
And if that doesn’t say ‘Merry Christmas,’ I don’t know what does.