If I have one talent that will remain finely tuned until the day I croak, it is the ability to appall myself. Sure, blog entries are specific to particular brain-dump at a particular moment, captured like mummified whores in a Pompeii brothel. Naturally, they are subject to a little revisionism. But complaining about putting a little work into a family holiday makes me feel like an overprivileged douchebag.
Yes, I hauled ass all over town on Christmas Eve in order to secure Robert’s new hog (on which he sits constantly, like an expectant mother bird). Yes, I am destined to impale a toe on one of the myriad small parts from some of Robert’s new toys, which came from very generous relatives. But dammit already. I thought being laid off for 15 months would imbue me with some sense of perspective.
Failing that, I only need contemplate that Mother Nature can snuff out a generation with a split-second shift of her knickers, and that thousands of parents are currently waiting for their children’s corpses to wash ashore.
Christmas was lovely, and the three of us were very fortunate to be a part of it. Thank you all for the food, the booze, and the presents (like the deep-fat fryer, in which Robert likes to store his new Lincoln Logs). And a special shout-out to Grandma and Grandpa, from whom we received a large box of gifts yesterday. You’ll be happy to know that Robert’s favorite gift was the box itself, in which he offered to mail himself to you.
