A surprise visitor

Well, I certainly got my Christmas present today.

I should've figured out that something was up when Andy wasn't on ICQ last night. I know good and well that the only time he completely shuts down his computer is when he's not at his house.

You can probably guess who, along with Heather, showed up on my doorstep this morning. With the Christmas present (a signed copy of Orson Scott Card's book, Ender's Game) of course.So much for a quiet day of getting the house clean. Instead, we went grocery shopping, team-cooked a nice dinner, and socialized. We watched the Penguins game. I didn't do much, but I'm still wiped out.

I'd write charming pithy commentary, but my brain's starting to fuzz over from the antihistamines that I took. Hopefully they'll help me sleep, too.

Welcome home, Amy

Welcome home, Amy, I say to myself. Look around. This is where you belong, whether or not you want to admit it.

Amidst the season of listmaking, my list

My favorite Christmas carol is still "Carol of the Bells."

I still have no memories of a white Christmas. Looks like this year won't be the year I get to make those memories. Perhaps another year.

It is the ads that make me angry

Tonight's Bubonic Mouse™ award goes to Colortyme—and, by proxy, every other rent-to-own shop in northeast Alabama with nasty guilt-tripping ads.

The first thing I heard in my car this morning was a spiel about how you should placate your family this holiday season. For your wife, buy her a bedroom suite to keep her quiet. For your children, a Playstation 2 to stop their whining.

Then it finished with the following jingle:"It's not what you thought.
It's what you bought."

My memories hang upon my tree

The Christmas tree stands in the far corner of my living room, rising silently above the round tree skirt my mother quilted for me. We placed the crystal ornaments one by one on the tree, moving them close to the white and blue lights, to allow the lights to shine through them as much as possible.