, , , , ,

I have about a zillion tiny changes to make in a bunch of Publisher files, and seeing as tomorrow I’m unavailable from roughly 1pm to bedtime, guess what? I’m avoiding doing it now! Yay me!

I also have to finish looking at somebody’s YA novel–50 more pages; thank mercy it’s a) better than usual and b) I dimly recall the first one, done 18 months ago. Then there’s a write-up. Also stalling there. Instead, I decided to catch you up (read: whinge) for a bit.

How do y’all feel about holiday music? I go all over the place, from fist-shaking and snarling (usually in stores, and when Mariah Carey is involved) to enjoying it (usually when doing something holiday-esque, and when the Rat Pack is involved). I am sad to say, though, that I’m not feeling the feels as a young neighbor practices Jingle Bells on some simple wind instrument. He just can’t get that G to save his little life. ( E-E-E! E-E-E! E . . .F?)

The issue is problematic at work. As far as I can tell, I have a few uncaring people, a whole bunch of rabid Christmas people–and one sad, lonely, angry guy who finds holiday music triggering and depressing. Oh sheep. Last week we were lucky, because he had a cold, but this week is going to be–unpleasant. I can see it now. We will probably resort to Mozart and please nobody but me. But I’m the boss, so hey now.

We are buying our first live tree in years next weekend, and I’m already nervous about it, as if it’s a temporary pet: I’m afraid of it dying on me almost immediately. That happened once; through the universe’s bad taste in black humor, one of our cats died right underneath it as well. (Probably a heart attack–sweet little guy, but he looked like he swallowed a bowling ball.) So I loaded up the tree, took it back to the lot, and was hysterical and incoherent. The poor, poor guy patted my hand a lot and gave me another tree for free. The kitty suffered the ultimate ignominy of ending up in the dumpster, seeing as the ground was frozen and what with Christmas and all, we didn’t have the funds for cremation. The whole experience was, shall we say, scarring.

And then there was the Christmas where we were new in town and discovered that the trees weren’t drilled for our spike stand. I remember digging into the pine with a pair of scissors and getting nowhere . . . I think twine played a part in tree support that year, and since we put it right near the heating duct on the floor, duhhhhh, of course it died too.

On the other hand, both kids hate the fake tree with a passion that ruins the tree trimming. So this year, I’m getting a real tree, baking me some cookies, and we’ll see what happens. I’ll keep you posted.