Well, as you might imagine, I feel right about as jolly as 1665 in London. Which is a peculiar degree of bad because Christmas is my favorite holiday. With Halloween. And Mardi Gras. Oh, and New Years Eve. And my birthday of course. And Easter, I love Easter as well.
Ok, I love holidays.
They’re a chance to buy presents, and dress funny, and bond more with the people who are close to you. Christmas, I particularly love. Just not this year. At least not until someone spikes the eggnog real bad.
Anyway, since even 1665 in London had something good aside from the plague, I’m trying to go through the usual stuff that usually makes me happy. I bought baskets of winter flowers in white and red, decorated a little, did not one but two Christmas trees (well, the second is a tree and we did it yesterday, so I’m saying that counts), I dug up some vintage Christmas albums with Ella Fitzgerald and Bing Crosby and I got the presents. Don’t worry. If you’re a friend, you’ll get your share. And nothing changes either if you happen to be on the naughty list. You’ll still get coal. It’s just going to be on fire.
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