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Christmas Photo I Like

Just Reward

Oh, Santa–you work hard, but you play harder.  Go Santa. Go, man, go.

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http://www.markvelasquez.com/

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Christmas Hangover

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I’ve been enjoying a mostly unplanned post-Christmas hiatus, after distractions, spontaneous napping, and (gods help me) post-holiday shopping got the better of me–yep, I increased my annual number of mall visits by 33% with a two hour dive back into the fray on Dec. 26th–and got a new pair of shoes for $40. (this has become a confessional blog, I guess).

I’ll resume with the usual, fitful volume of blather on January 1.  In the mean time, I’m left to look at the season in retrospect and I must admit the whole damned thing has a bit of a glimmer to it.  It was an odd year, with a late Thanksgiving that shortened the gap between the two holiday season pillars, but while the season blew by me, things went pretty well–from Thanksgiving through the storm of late-season parties–five in a span of two weeks, with New Years still to go.

We had a very nice Christmas, a little smaller than usual, but considerably less hectic.  Loved ones from North Carolina braved the wintry north to visit the weekend before Christmas, and somehow brought a breath of the south with them: it was 72 degrees on the 18th, a respite between a pair of cold, snowy snaps with temperatures in the teens.  That worked out pretty nicely, actually–we had the doors open wide for our Christmas Party on the 18th, got a lot of spirit-building white scenery before, and hey–a white Christmas after the meteorologists swore we’d see only green.  It was just like the eponymous Bing Crosby movie–White Christmas magic, pa rum pa pum pum.

And who doesn’t like a White Christmas?

My brother-in-law Bill, actually, who delivered his family to us from all the way up in Poughkeepsie (which actually is a real place; as a child I thought it was a made up town that people–like traveling ventriloquists and old school burlesque dancers, and maybe aluminum siding salesmen and Fuller Brush men–made up as an expression to show how far off the beaten track their dismal lives had taken them with a river and a bridge and…everything you ever dreamed a town called Poughkeepsie could have) with all the expected grumbling about the weather.  With Bill came two fantastic, all-grown-up nieces, Emily and Eileen, a super-cool nephew Tim, and his fiancee, Sarah.  Sarah turned out to be cool and fun–a big relief, even though the initial intelligence reports on her had been favorable.  You never know what you’re going to get, when there’s addition by marriage, (My wife’s family is still lamenting my arrival.) but it certainly appears that Sarah is a keeper.

We sat around, ate, talked, ate, drank, ate, talked some more, ate, drank, looked at pictures, and ate some more.  As holidays go, it was pretty close to perfect.  It felt too short–that’s how you know it’s a good holiday, when everyone isn’t eager to part.  Although, now that I think about it, the New Yorkers did seem to have some awfully vague explanations for the obligations that required them to leave on the 26th.

We’ve had some other activities and obligations–mostly fun stuff, but a little work here and there–so I’ve decided to reel in the blog thing for just a few days, since I’m ahead of my post-per-day forced march quota, thanks to all those cheap entries (photos, reblogs, and blurbs about Christmas records–who do I think I’m kidding?  I mean: jeez-oh-man.)

So, I’ll be back with the blinders on bright and early January 2–no damned way I’m doing a “resolutions” post, though–unless I do, which is quite possible now that I think about it.

I have been saving up some poetry (that got your pulse going, eh?) and other crap that isn’t hokey Christmas-related, and I’ve got some other new themes in store–and maybe I’ll even indulge a certain reader with a recipe here and there, though I’ll be damned if I’ll hand out the recipe for The Seventeen Pound Lasagna (which actually weighed 19 pounds, more or less)…but nice try asking.  I will give up this much: what you’re tasting is in your kitchen right now; there are no ingredients you cannot find in a typical rural low-volume grocery store.

So, that’s that.  Maybe I’ll post in the next few days, probably I won’t. Either way, have yourself a Merry New Years.  Throw one down for me.

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The Party Is Over

Santa works hard.  Santa plays hard.  Santa is The Man.328879565_ec36aa6c04