I’d intended to sit down tonight to write about the holidays. Perhaps I’d write something meaningful about how it felt to spend this Christmas season at home, the first time in seven years that we didn’t swap tradition for adventures in far-away-lands. Maybe I’d try to write about how profound it was to watch a child try to make sense of whether Santa is nice or how spending time with good friends reminds me that life is as rich as you allow it be.

But then. Well. Sam is away for the weekend and the kid is finally in bed. I have a fire going and I just stoked it by throwing a few copies of The Reader on top (it really is the best use I’ve found for the local rag; page 22 of the current issue burned particularly well). The tree is lit, as are the many candles left from our party and I’m curled beneath my new red fleece blanket in my favorite stained sweatshirt and pj bottoms. I have a bottle of wine, a pint of Häagen-Dazs® Mint Chip ice cream, homemade fudge and a very powerful little vibrator all the chick-flicks HBO On Demand can offer.

Life is rich, indeed.
Sentimentality is gonna have to wait.