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Bonding with my sister-in-law's father.
Watching GHOSTBUSTERS for the first time in several months, and approximately the twenty-third time in my life.
The best goddamn duck I've ever tasted, courtesy of my brother. Marinated in Marsala wine, roasted with pecans, dates, little onions, and more. Including a side of brussels sprouts cooked in butter and bacon, thereby making brussels sprouts officially awesome.
Getting drunk on wine and bonding with my sister-in-law.
Introducing said sister-in-law to John Carpenter's THE THING.
Suffice it to say, the Christmas Blues were conquered just when it counted. Now if I can just face down the New Year's Eve Blues without feeling like a sad lonely champagne-buzzed sack, we'll be golden.
Seriously, though. For most of my life, Christmas meant spending an awkward few hours with either my stepfather's extended family of Norwegian manic depressives or (more often) with my father, at the family of the only friends he had left. This was the first time since I was little--too young to be aware and subsequently be bothered by Dad's behavior, with my childish wonder still intact--that I finally had a Christmas that like the kind of experience you can't tell other people about without sounding like a goddamn Hallmark card. The first time since the wonder of childhood faded and the struggle with pained adult cynicism began that I had a Christmas that felt... like Christmas.
If Christmas always felt this way, it actually might edge Halloween out as my favorite holiday. Stories often lament how people don't act to each other year-round the way they act around Christmas. Frankly, I'll just be grateful if I can get this once a year from now on.
Now as long as I can get to sleep without fear of my brother's dog sprouting tentacles and trying to assimilate me, we'll be all good.
Bum-bum. Bum-bum. Bum-bum.
Watching GHOSTBUSTERS for the first time in several months, and approximately the twenty-third time in my life.
The best goddamn duck I've ever tasted, courtesy of my brother. Marinated in Marsala wine, roasted with pecans, dates, little onions, and more. Including a side of brussels sprouts cooked in butter and bacon, thereby making brussels sprouts officially awesome.
Getting drunk on wine and bonding with my sister-in-law.
Introducing said sister-in-law to John Carpenter's THE THING.
Suffice it to say, the Christmas Blues were conquered just when it counted. Now if I can just face down the New Year's Eve Blues without feeling like a sad lonely champagne-buzzed sack, we'll be golden.
Seriously, though. For most of my life, Christmas meant spending an awkward few hours with either my stepfather's extended family of Norwegian manic depressives or (more often) with my father, at the family of the only friends he had left. This was the first time since I was little--too young to be aware and subsequently be bothered by Dad's behavior, with my childish wonder still intact--that I finally had a Christmas that like the kind of experience you can't tell other people about without sounding like a goddamn Hallmark card. The first time since the wonder of childhood faded and the struggle with pained adult cynicism began that I had a Christmas that felt... like Christmas.
If Christmas always felt this way, it actually might edge Halloween out as my favorite holiday. Stories often lament how people don't act to each other year-round the way they act around Christmas. Frankly, I'll just be grateful if I can get this once a year from now on.
Now as long as I can get to sleep without fear of my brother's dog sprouting tentacles and trying to assimilate me, we'll be all good.
Bum-bum. Bum-bum. Bum-bum.
