I wish I looked better in a toque.
As it has probably a thousand times in my marriage to the Carpenter, our morning began with this question; “Are you okay if I write about this?”
Insomnia made me delusional. That explains it. Longing for sleep, I passed time contemplating cruel punishments to silence my snoring spouse.
It struck me, while out walking my dog on the last morning of my Christmas holidays, that the next day, I would be heading back to work, and as such, I was going to need pants.
If there is one thing that the year 2022 taught me, it’s that I have zero ability to predict my own future. None.
With all due respect, Santa, I’d like to request you take me off your “Nice” list this year.
Paul McCartney is watching me as I type this. His big puppy dog eyes are fixated on me all day. I am totally okay with that, though to be honest it’s distracting. Paul has me in the Christmas spirit.
The two green envelopes, addressed to Santa Claus, had been tucked under a stack of files for 12 years, but the notes inside each of them confirmed that my unique, kind, polite children are still all those things, with just enough unapologetic confidence to keep it real.
I think I get it now, the whole rush to decorate for Christmas weeks before it happens. Not October. I don’t get that. But November decor, well, I’ve accepted that.
Good music never gets old. Good musicians don’t either. And my music-obsessed heart will always beat just a little faster for a band with a good horn section.
You should have seen my face when I found out that I could not watch the new season of Yellowstone, a highly charged fictional television series that was last winter’s binge-watching addiction in my house.