Yesterday I parked at least 20 miles from my place of employ and walked through a bona fide gale to get to teach a class. Pulling the sweatshirt from over my head and neatening my hair (as neat as one can get the good ol’ Jewfro), I said to a colleague, “I guess if walking through the rain and wind to my warm job is all I have to complain about, then I’m doing pretty well.”
It’s like I don’t even know myself any more.
My class was actually talking to each other when they got to the room. They peer reviewed each other’s papers like bosses. I taught them some copyediting-fu about how to cut garbage words/phrases from their prose. They listen and (gasp) participated.
Christmas has officially been cancelled. I don’t have to buy for DP’s family. Third Sister is going to see Second Sister and doesn’t want to celebrate Christmas until I see her in March. DP and I are giving each other a trip to New Orleans. So now whenever something pisses me off, I can say, “Whatever. I’m going to New Orleans.”
I’m downright fucking cheerful.
I leave you with the 2014 Hater’s Guide to the Williams-Sonoma Catalog, which is one of my very favorite things about one of my least-favorite seasons.
There are thousands of newfangled cooking tools and gadgets and devices that only a Greenwich, Conn., kitchen could possibly have space to accommodate. There are dustings and sprinklings and twee little bows, all perfectly arranged for your perfect little evening of perfect holiday entertaining with your perfect neighbor guests and your perfect children standing by the table in their john-johns and singing gaily to you all as you pipe fresh, warm cognac into each other’s butts.
What do you hate about this “season”?