Christmas morning is such a wonderful thing. Colorful, crinkled wrapping paper and curly ribbons are strewn around the fragrant fir tree. The lights twinkle brightly on the tree, and the ornaments gleam as the sunshine streams past them. The cats are exploring the myriad opened boxes, and the dog is excitedly sniffing all the food-related items. Last night we opened our presents to one another; this morning we opened our stockings from Santa, and the gifts from my parents. I got coal in my stocking. It tastes of cinnamon.
In a short while I'll start cooking the vegetables for my contribution to the Patrick O'Brian Regency Christmas dinner we're attending at Doug Faunt and Lyn Paleo's. I don't actually have a genuine recipe, I'm just cobbling something together from memories of British school food, various Austen and Edgworth novels, and vegetables I know were grown in English gardens of the period. Well, and garlic mashed potatos, but that's because I like garlic mashed potatos with lamb which is the main course.
This evening I plan to start reading Terry Pratchett's Hogsfather which I have been saving up for my Christmas vacation. There will be much wadding up of paper balls for cat chases. A roaring fire will be built to combat the pleasingly chill weather which I only dislike when I have to walk the dog at midnight. John and I may try out our new Mancala board game (if we can keep the cats from carrying off the playing pieces). If we haven't stuffed ourselves silly at Doug and Lyn's we will eat the leftover Thai curry from our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. In the background will be the somewhat less traditional horrific sounds of Alien Resurrection as John watches his new laser disk.
Eventually, I will pack my pajamas and a change of clothes for Saturday night. Tomorrow I pick up Kymm at the San Jose airport, whisk her back to my house to see the improbably genteel lodgings in which I reside, then drive us to Beth's where the three of us will shriek with laughter, and gossip madly, and plot the new world order of the online journal community which we control. We'll probably go online with ICQ trolling for other cabal members. Then we'll eat babies for breakfast.
Sunday will be a time of quiet contemplation as I drive the two hours back from Sacramento and think about the past year. Actually, it probably won't be: I'm more likely to be freaking out about the need for a new index page and journal entry redesign to reflect the new year. But if I get the chance, somewhere during the weekend I will steel myself to face down my personal demons: fear for two of my pets' health, sorrow for the continuing deterioration of my relationship with my brother, grief over recent deaths, and anger at those who furtively use me as a launching point for their cowardly, manipulative attempts to garner attention rather than face up to their own inadequacies (and I am not talking solely about online diarists). These things will haunt me in the night if I don't look closely at them, acknowledge them, change what I can, accept what I can't, and move on.
And when I am done, the gifts of the past year will still be spread before me, a dazzling array: hope and happiness, self-confidence and new skills, friendships renewed and friendships made. Happy holidays, dear readers. May your days be merry and bright.
