The presents are wrapped and bagged, the stockings stuffed, and Santa's plate holds only artfully placed crumbs (nothing says Santa was here like crumbs). Visions of racetracks are still dancing in the head of the six-year-old, blissfully unaware that the day he has been counting down toward has arrived.
Six is the magic age for Christmas. Belief in Santa is in full force, egged on by the arrival of a letter from the man himself and reinforced by Mom who reminds him Santa is somehow always watching. His room has been perpetually clean, and he has been treating his sister like a princess, always aware of the omnipresence.
This Santa scheme is a fabulous idea. My parents didn't know what they were missing when they shunned the whole Santa phenomenon during my childhood. I doubt I would have fallen for it. But little William de Scribbler didn't seem to notice that Santa's letter was posted with a one cent stamp, uncancelled (I'm
cheap a tightwad a monetary genius), or that it arrived on Christmas Eve, a mail-free Sunday. He may have questioned why Santa must have skim chocolate milk, but was alert enough to hush me when I mentioned Santa's waistline.
Sure, many of the inconvenient discrepancies of Santa can be explained away with magic; a billion children served in one night is easily the result of time zones and super sonic sleigh speed; Santa's handwriting looks like Mommy's, but so does many people's -- it's a popular style; it's true that most reindeer don't have red noses, but Rudolph drinks a lot. It's a stressful job.
And the six-year-old is now awake and dancing with excitement. Yes, he commented on the cookie crumbs.
Merry Christmas! (Or
glædelig Jul, if you prefer.)
Sounds yummy for New Years Eve. Now, let's assume I'm blonde and make the recipe as such. Do I have to drink both myself? I find this double recipe nonsense biased and offensive to the non-paired.
On the other hand, I bet I could just drink both myself . . .
Well, you could, or you could take the simpler and perhaps more enjoyable route of inviting over a friend who can share in this marvelous concoction.
If it's soon, you can celebrate the impending (or completed, depending on when it is) neck stretching of the former President of Iraq.
Great idea. All bloggers, my house, 11 p.m. Pencil, bring the cocktail shaker.
P.S. I'll be asleep by 10, so keep the noise down.
Were we quiet enough? You didn't come down to join us or to yell that we woke you up, so I'm guessing that either we were or you just had a few too many Silky Kisses before we arrived, I'm sure as just a simple "sleep aid".
By the way, you're out of gin, vokda, vermouth, Jack Daniels and Southern Comfort. And that bottle of 1977 Dow vintage port that you were saving? Uh... sorry about that.
And sorry about the cat. He'll get over it.
Someone(s) apparently had the major munchies. Hope nothing illegal was going on (besides the cat incident). (Do I look like a cat person?)
No one had the munchies until we used those brownies you left on the counter as a palate cleanser between gin tastings. What was in those things? You have any more?
Ooooh, right, the brownies. I was just holding them for -- uh, they were for the kids -- I mean, the cat.
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