At first glance this video appears to be an irresponsible, drunk post. I was drinking with the dog. But just wait until the end.
By the way, Blue makes that sound all the time. He likes to come up to me in bed while I am sleeping and do that in my face to get me up.
Here are some pictures from Christmas, which I decided was one great-big failure. The pictures are for my dad and step-mom. And for Tabby.
I want her to know that little Chicky is very, very happy without her. And he loves his new sweater.
Notice the correct grammar. Not “fail” people. Failure. I’ll get off my high horse now.
Speaking of failures, my dad and I commiserated over a rather lackluster Christmas. I blame Frank Lloyd Wright.
My grandparents built a very famous house when my dad was just a child.
Before this house came along, they had regular Christmases in a regular house. But after they moved, the house took the front and center and Christmas became too messy.
This article, BTW, is so ironic. It’s about how my grandparents’ house can teach you a thing or two about relaxation.
My grandmother, while a dynamo, a visionary, a creative force, was anything but relaxing and this house was her life.
The house was beautiful, stately, avant-garde artistic and appeared serene, but it was most definitely not relaxing.
That house was its own entity whose needs always came first, whose every furnishing and surface was to be protected at all costs.
It was not a place to let your hair down and relax. Never.
I loved visiting my grandparents and being in this house. It was exotic and beautiful and my grandmother was doting in her exhausting way, but there was always the pressure to be just right, to never set that glass down without a coaster.
I loved visiting but would not want to live there. It wasn’t a great house for a kid to be a kid.
To be fair to my grandmother, I have a spectacular story about her putting a person first, but it will mess up the rhythm of this post so I’ll save it for later.
Anyway, the traditions that make Christmas special went out the window and my father was raised largely without a sense of what to do.
Couple that with my mother, a native Vietnamese who had no way of knowing how it was supposed to go, and that tradition of cluelessness was passed on to me.
No blame here, we were just trying to get to the bottom of why I suck at doing Christmas.
I took this up with Goodwood today, who rules at Christmas. He and his wife and son are like family to us. I intend to do better next year and with his help, hopefully I will.
I want to figure out a way to make Christmas a day to look forward to all year. Not because of the presents, but because of the fun stuff that we do only on that day and with people we love.
I promise to cut the crap next week, I have plenty.