Christmastime, Pretty Baby

I think my writing work is taking a nap for the holidays.

That's right; today is the last day of the grind, and then after a night with a houseguest it's off to the Great Green North of Mendocino County.

My Christmas got off to the exact right start this weekend, as I received a present from a new friend who I keep insisting can't possibly be that new, and an old friend whose company I had not shared in a long while. I am now the proud owner of my first Christopher Moore book; and of a black piece of canvas that says, simply, "What Would You Attempt if You Knew You Could Not Fail?".

I nearly teared up opening that one. It is now proudly displayed in my living room, in full view of my armchair, where I will sit, and read Christopher Moore, and think that I know exactly what I would attempt—and I'm attempting it nearly every day. Fantastic timing on that one.

So, just one more day; just a few more QA jobs; and then it's the long drive and the foggy windows and the constant winding greenery that leads to my house (and yes, the hotel that looks like a golf course fucking a salmon run). My aunt will put on her reindeer pajamas; my father will crank the Elvis Christmas album; and we'll crack more than one bottle of wine and get down to the important business of playing board games, opening presents, and spending time with family. And during that time, we'll all reflect on our year and be grateful for the time to be with each other—though the food may be fattening, though one or two of our usual guests may not make it, though the fireplace may fill the house with smoke, it's Christmas, damn it, and nothing is going to make it anything less than that.

It's likely that I will not have time to blog while I am up there, so I leave you with these thoughts: Whatever holiday you're celebrating, whatever you choose to call it, I hope yours is incredible; and I say to you, with all the best hopes and intentions: Merry Christmas.