Friday, December 01, 2006
Holy 68 degrees, December 1
Hello, you people. I may live in the south (though not the very deep south), but there is something very odd about two solid weeks of weather in the 60's and 70's in late November. Not that I'm complaining, especially since we just had all of our windows replaced this week. It would not have been very awesome to take conference calls in a parka and mittens with the wind and snow whistling around me due to the gaping holes in my house.

In other news: today, I discovered that my computer is once again allowing me to read Blogger blogs. For three weeks I have not been able to access any blogs hosted by Blogger (or, strangely, Dooce) which means I could not get to my own fucking blog. However, my computer has apparently decided that it is not quite as pissy now that it is December...perhaps it is joyful about the advent of the holidays and has decided it is not necessary to act like a little bitch. Seriously, three weeks. So damn weird.

Moving on, December 1 has brought with it my typical pre-holidays trepidation. I thought I was going to avoid it this year. You see, we didn't have to travel for Thanksgiving this year. My mom and grandmother came up here and my husband and I cooked and hosted, along with my brother and his wife, for the long weekend. It was fantastic! No loading up the car with all of our crap, our two dogs, and braving the worst weekend of the year for driving.

Because we didn't have to go anywhere, for once in my life, I was not feeling true panic over the approach of the holidays. That measly five days seemed to present oodles more time to prepare for things like sending Christmas cards (uh, we've managed to do that exactly once, 3 years ago), buying presents for everyone (including my husband's family because, as he says, "Isn't that why I got married? So I don't have to shop anymore?"), and hosting our second annual holiday party (I am no Martha Stewart which means hosting party = anxiety attacks).

Until I realized that family coming here for Thanksgiving means cleaning the house top to bottom, figuring out a menu, shopping, cooking all that food, trying to keep the dogs from humping grandma all weekend, and generally playing the pleasant hostess, meaning no retreating to the bedroom with a good book and a bottle of wine, as I might do if I were at my mom's house.

So, December 1 brings yet panic again. I shall grin and bear it, because that's the kind of woman I am. A full-of-shit, cheesy, neurotic martyr. Be my friend.



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