Chilly rain and raw winds notwithstanding (and, come oooooon, if it's going to be cold and precipitating, can we not get a little snow around here?), Christmas was lovely. The folks had decorated the tree to a fare-thee-well, though La Mère had to requisition a bunch of replacements for the gold origami cranes that I made several years ago, and there was festive food of the dairy and carnivy varieties. I went to the early service, while Il Padre served the later one, so Seesterperson and I whiled away the wait for him by replacing key words in carols with "cheese." Our soulful "Christmas Cheese, O, Christmas Cheese" is destined to become a classic.
As has become tradition, La Mère declared that we'd be giving and getting very few presents this year, and as usual her plans were scuppered before they were announced. The living room was awash in wrapping paper and bows, because while we are firm believers in recycling gift boxes (Il Padre was taken aback to get a gift card and a "A Wok for All Seasons" pot holder in a holographic Bath and Bodyworks box), we don't have much truck with ironing out the paper and ribbons for reuse. It's somehow more satisfying to have to rummage around a pile of wadded-up paper to find, say, the box of marzipan fruit, while Il Padre hangs candy canes off his ears and Seesterperson belts out, "Christmas Christmas cheese is here, Time for love and time for beer!" or La Mère interprets, "Hogswatch is coming, the goose is getting fat. Please put a dollar in the old man's hat. If you haven't got a dollar, a penny will do; if you haven't got a penny then murfleflrurblmf!"
To my relief, because my record on gifts for her is about 50-50, Seesterperson liked the Loyal Army shirts I got her in San Francisco; poor 5*joe had looked agonizingly uncomfortable as RockNinja and I rifled through the store's stacks of cutesy shirts, gamely holding our bags and not bolting out of the shop to Amoeba Records. We did go to Amoeba eventually (RN: "Lots of stores have a world music section, and some even have an African section, but I don't remember being in one that had a Senegalese rap section, so...WIN!"), whence Il Padre got a collection of all sorts of Georgian music. La Mère liked the deerskin purse I got her, though she did correctly suss out that I'd bought it largely because I'm worried that she'll steal the one I've carried for the last few years (Potomac Leather, for all your fine tanning needs). I had to dig my own self out from under a pile of excellent gifts: Lush bath goodies, L'Occitane unguents, a HappyLite, cupcaking supplies sufficient to induce instant sugar shock, a book on piracy, and various small candy treats. Fun was had by all.
Unfortunately, I'm too old to believe in Santa, so I'm 90% sure that the cold germs that are now manifesting themselves were really from Il Padre. Bah snorfle.
2 comments:
Poor 5*Joe indeed.
I long ago made it my policy that, when asked to hold the significant other's purse whilst shopping, I would simply sling it over my shoulder as if it were my own. Holding it like a piece of roadkill only makes it more conspicuous, is how I view it.
I've never had the opportunity to demonstrate the efficacy of this technique in San Francisco, however.
5*joe seemed less bothered to be holding the bags than at doing so in a store that practically radiated Y-chromosome repellent. "Loyal to the Army of Cute!" chirps the place's logo. "Not for fellers!" is the subtext.
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