We've just wrapped up dinner, and my wife and son are inexplicably watching the unbe-LEEV-ably lame tree-lighting at Rockefeller Center. It's a two-hour excrapaganza featuring terrible canned banter and a motley cast of Whoever's In Town This Week, including what looks to be a boyband of opera singers.
At last, the
Christmas holiday season that began six weeks ago has officially begun.
The season of
buying shit goodwill also highlights another interesting wrinkle in the exquisite tapestry of my marriage: our disparate views of religion. I was raised to worship at the feet of the Big J.C., but it never really took. My wife, though, is a weekly churchgoer who is convinced that when times get tough, God somehow lends a helping hand (or at least a finger). During the layoff, for example, there was this time when we got really low on cash, and my wife was convinced something would break our way. I told her she was crazy and returned to biting my miserable, agnostic nails.
Two days later, I got my first royalty check from a book I wrote before we got married. And oh, the gloating. Am I even close to living that one down? Ha-ha! No.
MIC and I have been debating the relative merits of exposing our children to religion over at the O.P., and I'd be curious to hear your opinions. Anything to draw my attention away from Rod Stewart murdering another American classic.