I came in the door tonight with a freshly arrived shipping box under my arm from which I triumphantly pulled my new Buffy the Vampire Slayer Board Game.
"Would anybody like to play a game with me tonight?" I ask hopefully.
"Sure," my husband says. Then he squints at the box cradled in my arms. "Wait... Is that a Buffy trivia game?"
"Then, yes, I'll play with you."
Meanwhile my ten-year-old son is flipping the box over.
Did you march? That's how most my friends and acquaintances are greeting each other this week. Did you march?
Loosely related to yesterday's post, I was in the car this afternoon, between the bus stop and piano lessons, humming along to my new local Irish playlist.
Suddenly a footstep on the stair
Who could it be but Reilly after slaughter
With two pistols in his hand
Looking for the man who shagged his daughter
I'm fond of the new Irish pub to which I can walk from my house. I owe them quite a bit, actually, and not the bar-tab kind of way.
Father Paddy's Public House popped into existence in Woodland last year and brought to us the things that I would consider a prerequisite for such an establishment, such as decent beer on tap and fine plate of fish and chips, but also something I hadn't thought to expect. Live local music. Specifically live local Irish music, which I didn't even know we had around here.
And here we are again. The tree in the living room is getting crispy and I'm back at the office. It's the fourth day of Christmas, coming up on the fifth night of Hanukah I think, and three days to go before we say goodnight to 2016.
The general sentiment of folks on the internet seems to be good riddance on that score. Truth to tell, I'm more worried about what the new year will bring us this time around. I feel my patented brand of optimism slipping.
I'm in Cost Plus on a Friday evening at 5:30 pm, nine days before Christmas. Normally, I would be playing hockey at this time. In actuality, this scene isn't that different.
I approach the counter with various Christmas purchases in my basket, which include a bottle of wine. (The wine isn't actually a gift; it's for me. I have a lot of wrapping to do tonight.)
"May I see your ID, ma'am?" asks the young clerk.
I beam at her and hand over my license for inspection. "Thank you for asking," I say, conspiratorially. "I haven't been carded in ages."
Tuesday morning. 5 a.m. Airport coffee and a plastic chair. Tinsel on the airport art. Fa-la-la-la-la.
Life's been a blur of work and Christmas. Throw in a new hockey bruise and you're up to speed.
Every time I switch on the news, my stomach turns over. I keep switching it on though. I'm starting to wonder if I do it out of social responsibility or as a rubbernecker watching a slow-motion car wreck crash into Washington.
The best I can do is take a deep breath, resist the urge to panic, and look to my local community for ways to help.