The Eggnog Chronicles

Where does a heathen even begin to find comfort and joy this time of year?

Eating and drinking, of course.

I'm not going to pretend that my many deadlines haven't made this holiday season a tad more frenetic than usual, but once the holiday known as Official U.S. Work Stoppage Days begins - as it did Monday for me and probably the previous Thursday or Friday for many people - I took full advantage.

Slept in. No writing allowed. Read Sunday's paper with Mr. Wright while regretting not having pre-ordered Nate's bagels for Christmas Eve afternoon munching. Only after a walk over there left me staring at a "SOLD OUT!!! Happy holidays!" sign did I begin regretting my lack of foresight.

But the real celebrating began with a 3:00 reservation at Can Can that carried us right through until it was time to get in line at the Byrd Theater for my annual screening of "It's a Wonderful Life."

And just for the record, in the quarter century I've been going to watch Jimmy Stewart regain his hope, this year was the very first time I only had to wait in one line. The master planner in my life had procured online tickets (granted, they weren't always available), allowing us to go directly to the "have tickets" line, bypassing the even longer box office line and resulting in far less shivering on Cary Street waiting time for me.

In what could only be called a Christmas Coincidence, upon arrival at Can Can the hostess led us directly to the same discreet table where we'd had our first date. Later in the meal, our server referred to the table by saying, "If you don't want to rush, this is the table for you," a fact we'd discerned on that marathon first date.

There couldn't be enough La Galope Rose to celebrate such an unlikely happenstance, though we enjoyed ourselves hugely trying, pairing it with butternut squash soup with maple creme fraiche - a marriage made in heaven, by the way - bacon and chives. A baguette as long as my forearm loaded with smoked salmon, Boursin, capers, spinach and red onion, along with a generous plate of dressed greens kept me happy while Mr. Wright tucked into Thai shrimp salad and we marveled at our holiday luck.

After two hours eating and sipping, our affable server (who was working  a 15-hour shift at the Jefferson on Christmas day) explained that we'd have to either move or leave because they had a six-top coming in. The Rose had made me bold enough to pipe up and tell him that we'd move, but we weren't leaving.

When Mr. Wright stated that we'd like to stay at that particular table, I clarified that we'd had our first date at that table.

"Oh, please stay," he said, putting one hand against his heart, grinning sweetly and scurrying off to set up the six-top to the right of us. He was still beaming at us when he returned to explain that he was getting off, but wishing us all the best.

With more La Galope awaiting us in the chilling bucket, I ordered the dessert special he'd recommended, an eggnog sorbet sprinkled with grated nutmeg and the most Christmasy dessert imaginable (sorry, buche de Noel).

Let's just say that I wasn't the only one who regretted that I'd only gotten one scoop instead of two.

Just as we finished the last of the Rose, our replacement server breezed by and we explained our predicament: we needed more pink to finish our celebration. He returned with half a bottle of La Galope and a smirk. "Another table ordered this and didn't finish it, so it's all yours."

Thanking him for the gratis wine, I shared why it made our return visit to this table even better. "Ohhh!" he said, also putting his hand over his heart.

We were unintentionally charming millennials left and right with our first date saga. It only occurred to us later that they probably thought we'd been together much longer than is actually the case.

Other than the online ticket masterstroke, the only other surprise at the Byrd was that organist Bob Gulledge was injured and out of action. Ever vigilant, manager Todd insisted we all join in for a collective get well video he shot, before substitute John DeMajo saved the day by playing the mighty Wurlitzer for the Byrd's annual Christmas singalong.

Although Todd had announced that all 1200 seats were occupied, I happen to know that the one in front of me and two beside me weren't, but still it was a near full house, meaning the balcony was opened. Turns out that's where Mac and her Mom landed, not that we knew that until after Jimmy Stewart had had his epiphany and she called my name as we exited the theater.

Start to finish, that was a Christmas eve.

Christmas day was almost as unambitious - minus the attempt at Nate's bagels and Frank Capra classic - but the real fun began when we got to Peter Chang's shortly after 4:00. The media had been clear that Chang's had been booked solid for both Eve and Day, but a phone call told us the real story: slide in between meals and you'll have no problem.

Done and done.

Can Mr. Wright and I take up residence on bar stools mid-afternoon and wile away Christmas Day with no regrets? Yes, we can.

With a Portuguese Rose stashed behind the bar, we proceeded to settle in for a leisurely meal with an ever-changing array of people on either side of us. While we nibbled on steamed vegetable dumplings (easily the most flavorful vegetable filling a dumpling has ever delivered to my mouth), we had two sets of stool mates, but by the time our entrees showed up, it was completely different people on either side.

My side even changed a third time. It's like people were stopping at a filling station, not out to savor a holiday meal.

Oddly enough, several of them wanted to order off the lunch menu, further complicating things for the bartenders, who had their hands full making libations for all the people stuck with family obligations and toddlers jumping on the banquette at their tables.

Midway through my Kung Pao chicken, mercifully downgraded from two pepper spicy to one pepper spicy after our thoughtful barkeep asked if I was really wanting it that hot (uh, no), I realized that our scallion bubble pancake hadn't yet arrived. You see, it's not just the sublime pleasure of having bread with Chinese food that I was missing, but the essential means of cooling my mouth when multiple bites of Kung Pao sauce left lingering heat there.

Our bartender looked abashed when I asked about it and returned from the kitchen assuring us it was in progress. Ten minutes later when I asked again, it was still nowhere to be found. The irony was that once it did, a second pancake arrived shortly after and I was foolhardy enough to send it away.

What did you learn this Christmas, Karen? Never pass up a chance to enjoy a bonus scallion bubble pancake when it arrives unbidden.

The only problem with Peter Chang's is that there are no dessert offerings, but the moment I overheard the bartender mention eggnog to the couple to Mr. Wright's left, my dessert radar went on high alert. When he got a second, we asked about it and his face got a devilish grin.

"Oh, it's good," he assured us, ticking off the whiskey, rum and liqueurs battling for dominance in a glass of cream and nutmeg, all in the name of holiday overindulgence. Mr. Wright immediately ordered two and Christmas got a little brighter in Scott's Addition.

It was around then that I spotted a curator/fellow music lover and his wife seated at a high table behind us and called out a greeting, leading to a quick catch-up session hindered by the hordes of wannabe diners lining the space behind the bar stools. Finally, he suggested I email him soon instead.

By then it was after 7 and every available inch of space in the restaurant was taken over by people foolish enough to show up at prime eating time at one of the mere ten restaurants open on Christmas Day. Not to sound Scrooge-like, but we had zero empathy for them.

As I sucked the final swallow of creamy eggnog up the straw, I commented to Mr. Wright what a sad sound it was to hear. As he quickly pointed out, that was an easily solved problem. No one looked more surprised than the barkeep when we asked for two more.

C'mon, everyone knows that one counts as dessert and one counts as an after-dinner drink. And on a day that mattered not one little bit to a heathen and one of the Chosen People, we were only too happy to extend our stay for the sake of more nog.

But we're also not animals, so after the second round, we decided to abdicate our stools to a latecomer who seemed willing to trade his right arm for a place to sit and eat. When we told him that we'd arrived at 4 to score the prime real estate we were now ceding to him, he realized he was in the presence of pros and thanked us appropriately.

There may be a more perfect way to observe the official U.S. Work Stoppage Days, but if it doesn't involve first date redux, an abundance of Rose and obscene amounts of eggnog, I don't see how it could have suited us better.

You don't have to ask us to please stay twice.

Lassoing the Moon

It's hard because Christmas Eve is a day with nearly as many expectations as Christmas itself.

Besides listening to the Border Brass' classic "Tijuana Christmas," which I most definitely did for the first time in decades, I had a non-stop day, although one of these things did not happen to me today:

I watched three episodes of the TV show "Friends"
I saw a marriage proposal unfold
I got chided about not having a cell phone
I opened a gift of jewelry
I walked to Rite-Aid in search of cocktail sauce
I listened to a new album with a lyric about "perversions of the heart" and mulled that over
I stood for the national anthem

In addition to the (totally not) traditional brown sugar and Dijon-coated ribs served with asparagus and fingerling sweet potatoes meal that preceded it, my Eve was occupied with seeing "It's  Wonderful Life" at the Byrd, a particularly notable event given that I'd been out of town and missed it last year.

As if the holiday gods had been looking out for me, though, I'd seen Bob Gulledge playing the mighty Wurlitzer organ for the annual holiday singalong already twice this month, so tonight's singalong - "If you do it right, I won't even be able to hear the organ," the nattily-dressed Bob told us - didn't have its usual novelty value.

Still, there's always something reassuringly familiar and appropriately holiday-like about hearing an organ on Christmas Eve.

Fortunately, the people behind us could carry a tune, even if they sounded like annoying eager beaver choir members singing at the top of their lungs doing it.

But it's not officially Christmas until the black and white bells of "It's a Wonderful Life" begin ringing onscreen to announce the movie that's become an integral part of my yearly celebration.

Who ever gets tired of hearing Jimmy Stewart say, "Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope!" when looking at a suitcase too small for his imaginary trips? Or watching his loose-limbed, long-legged gait as he tears through Bedford Falls appreciating every small-town nook and cranny in the place he once hoped to escape?

Not me.

All of that I'd counted on when I got to the Byrd, but completely unexpected was a screen reading, "Peggy, Will you marry me? Kevin" followed by a couple in the back hugging ecstatically (my guess is she said yes). The only thing missing was the Ray Conniff Singers doing "Christmas Bride."

So it was Peggy, not me, who opened a gift of jewelry today. May her perversions of the heart line up with Kevin's for eternity and a Christmas Eve.

Then One Foggy Christmas Eve

'Twas the night before Christmas and I'm full as a tick and mindful of how wonderful my life is.

It could be because of the lovely, lemony Trouillard Brut Champagne that kicked off the afternoon, loosening tongues and setting the tone for merry this and happy that (coincidentally also the words on the red bev naps under the bubbly).

Besides the usual Christmas albums - Mathis, Conniff, Sinatra - I tried to slip in something different, namely "Contemporary Gospel Christmas volume 9" and it went over like a lead balloon. The only guests who could stand it were around in the '80s listening to the Quiet Storm. So, yes, I liked it, but it was stopped mid-disc.

Lesson here: you just can't mess with some people's holiday audio.

Supper was served early, meaning not long after sunset, and was pulled together with contributions from various sources. The real cooking talent supplied the killer pickle-brined fried chicken while I made mashed potatoes and drop biscuits, about the easiest of all southern breads.

Say what you will about their simplicity (I did learn to make them my first year of Home Ec.), but the butter melts just as drippingly well inside them as in cut biscuits.

The star of the salad was the shiitake mushrooms supplied by my bulb savior Todd, who had generously also given me his favorite recipe for them ( a bath of soy sauce and olive oil followed by 20 minutes in the oven), promising that they'd come out tasting like bacon. Not quite, but plenty delicious, especially next to the butter and brown sugar-baked pecans that also peppered the spring mix of greens.

Like the potatoes and salad, the dinner wine was organic. Rosy pink Lumos Chiquita Pinot Noir Rose drank as beautifully as it looked, hinting at strawberries and something citrusy and proving my theory that Rose is a year round drink. Some would say that it didn't hurt that it was close to 70 degrees today.

Dessert was a turkey platter of Christmas cookies and everyone had a different favorite from the array of peanut butter with dark chocolate, iced sugar cookies, pressed butter cookies and, for the first time, chocolate butter cookies, a radical departure for the traditionalists in the group.

I knew better than to waste the precious little bit of room left in my belly on mere cookies since the next stop was the Byrd theater for the annual viewing of "It's a Wonderful Life," which always involves buttered popcorn and Milk Duds.

The line for tickets was already around Cary Street and winding down Sheppard Street in the fog when we arrived, but it soon moved quickly and compared to past years of standing outside in freezing cold weather, it was actually quite pleasant.

Inside, the three concession lines were already doubling over on themselves, but I staked my territory in the farthest one, striking up a conversation with the woman in front of me.

Like me, she's made seeing this film on Christmas Eve at the Byrd part of her holiday tradition and once she found out I was at the 20-year mark, began reminiscing about the days when lines were short and seats readily available.

"Now I'm sorry I told so many people about it," she lamented half-jokingly. But where's the Christmas spirit in that?

All at once two women approached her and shrieks ensued. The duo had come from Alaska and were surprising her in line with their visit. Last year, she'd gone to Alaska to see them and they'd decided to reciprocate without telling her. It was all very sweet.

They agreed to hold my place in line while I made a run for the bathroom, squeezing through the other concession lines to get there. I inched my way behind a guy in line and he acted like I'd goosed him. "Woo-hoo! Come again, please!" he called after me. Christmas lechery, how nice.

My rationale for going to the Byrd for the same movie every year is that it's still able to work its magic every time. I mean, I know George Bailey is going to get his life back and everything will be fine, but watching those scenes where he sees what a hole would have existed if he'd never been born still moves me.

So while I wouldn't leave a hole nearly as big as George Bailey's, I do know my presence would be missed by a few...but an important few.

Just last week, a friend wrote me, "I so miss your upbeat smiling and twinkling eyes."

I won't be going down in history or anything like that, but if there's one thing I've learned from this movie it's that no one is a failure who has friends. I wouldn't have wanted to live any other life than mine.

Although I've never been naked in a hydrangea bush, it's been a very interesting situation every step of the way.

A Second Chance at Happiness

Some things about Christmas don't change.

There's always a shared meal on Christmas eve starting with a pomegarante salad followed by multiple main courses to appease various tastes.

We began with a South African, always the way to get my attention, in this case the Star Tree Brut, a lovely wine, tasting of spicy pear and the promise of the holiday.

My favorite part of this year's meal (because I did not have to prepare it but got to enjoy anyway) was the hearty and savory dish of pork, sauerkraut, apples and potatoes, heightened by the honeysuckle notes of the rich Jean-Baptiste Adam Gewurztraminer we drank with it.

Others ate a chicken dish I did prepare from a chicken raised in Culpeper, a chicken whose throat had been cut by one of the guests, but at least a chicken who had lived a happy, farm life and not spent his numbered days in a tiny coop.

Dinner over, we gathered our forces to face the madding crowds at the Byrd theater for the annual viewing of "It's a Wonderful Life," a film guaranteed to bring tears to the eyes of strong men and sentimental women.

The line was already around the Daily when our posse arrived, but we made it inside before the line was cut off and people's Christmas eve dreams were dashed.

We ended up way in the back- fourth row from the back- but with buttered popcorn and Milk Duds procured, it wasn't so bad.

The evening unexpectedly began with manager Todd doing a black and white slide show of the Byrd's history, showing the original smaller 1928 proscenium and non-existent concession stand.

How did people sit through movies without snackage?

The 1970s slide he showed had corrected both those issues but still looked vastly different than today.

We saw a picture of the days when the lobby included a pond with fish, which turned out to be more trouble than it was worth, so the fish soon exited, stage right.

There were shots of the enormous Byrd chandelier, which he said weighed 2 1/2 tons and contained over 5.100 pieces of Czechoslovakian crystal.

When it came time to clean it, he said it took fifteen minutes to crank it down to a reachable level but an hour and fifteen to crank it back up to its rightful place on the ceiling.

"So we hired strapping, young gentlemen to do the job for us," he said, showing a slide of said gentlemen.

After the history lesson, Bob Gulledge and the mighty Wurlitzer arose from the bowels of the building for the annual Christmas singalong.

Say what you will about cheesy songs belted out by the tone-deaf, but on Christmas eve, it's actually pretty endearing.

Then it was time for the reason for the evening, that 1946 classic, "It's a  Wonderful Life," the movie that reminds us how much of an effect each of us has on the lives of so many others.

True, I've watched this holiday classic at the Byrd for close to twenty years but I've yet to tire of the sweet story or of watching Jimmy Stewart as the man who gets nothing he thinks he wants but everything he truly does.

I happen to think that sometimes life works out that way for many of us.

Christmas morning dawned sunny but far too cold for me, although I took my daily walk anyway, but only after a hearty breakfast that left the apartment reeking of bacon, always a good thing.

Walking through nearby Carver was like strolling a ghost town with only a few cars on the road and absolutely no one, not even dog walkers, on the streets.

The only sign of life was coming from a non-descript house near the garage where I take my car; from it emanated the extremely loud sound of drums and bass, a Christmas day band practice it sounded like.

Given the solitude of the neighborhood, I paused and listened for a while, enjoying the energy and volume piercing the holiday morning emptiness.

My guests began arriving mid-afternoon, some who were part of last years' celebration and others who weren't and a few still hungover from their eve celebrating.

Ignoring that, we began by popping a bottle of Tendil & Lombardi blanc de noir champagne, an absolutely gorgeous creamy sparkler that was a Christmas gift in and of itself.

I was also gifted with books, including a cultural history called "New York by Gaslight," written by a Richmonder in 1850 about the seamier side of the growing city, and two perfectly lovely pieces of small sculpture made by VCU sculpture students.

Our soundtrack ranged from 1958's "Johnny Mathis Merry Christmas" to 1965's "A Charlie Brown Christmas" to the Carpenters' 1978 "Christmas Portrait."

For a good decade now, my traditional Christmas dinner has been cheeseburgers and tonight was no different except that I got out of cooking  by ceding control of the kitchen to those who do it for a living, another Christmas gift.

Enjoying a bottle of beautifully balanced Bouchaine Carneras pinot noir with our bacon, cheese and fried onion-laden burgers, everyone seemed perfectly okay with my non-traditional Christmas supper.

It was during a dessert of Christmas cookies and an obscenely rich chocolate cake that I took advantage of a new-to-me Christmas gift CD, Nils Lofgren's "White Lies," a blast from the past I'd owned in college that got high marks from the guitarist at the table, who questioned what genre the album was considered.

Honestly, that's a tough call since music genres weren't nearly as specific in the '70s as they are now.

What I like most about the album is how side one is labeled "rocking" and side two "dreamy."

If you'd asked me in college, that's exactly how I'd have hoped my life would turn out - part rocking and part dreamy.

It has. Call it post-Christmas bliss, but I think I think I've got my wonderful life.

Every Time a Bell Rings

Christmas Eve is always the same and always different.

I always have people to dinner and go to the Byrd to see "It's a Wonderful Life."

That's the same part.

The variables are in how it shakes down.

Like how I'd just gotten a package from my BFF from college containing two wines she knew I'd relish.

Crios de Susana Balbo Rose of Malbec, a big-bodied rose with flavors (and the color) of strawberries, was the ideal wine for the rich chicken dish I'd made.

Even the hoppiest beer lover in the group was wowed by it.

Just as wonderful was the Tasmanian devil she'd sent, Jansz Cuvee Brut Sparkling.

The fine bubbles and crisp lemony finish had everyone talking about why we haven't tasted more Tasmanian wines before.

So there's a new goal for the new year.

After a meal that left everyone in a food coma, we went our separate ways, with just me and a first timer going to Carytown for Capra's now-classic film.

Arriving an hour before showtime, we found the line already back to Mongrel and within a short time, around the block and past the alley on Shepperd.

It was clear that many in line were also first-timers because they were taking pictures of themselves in line.

Once inside, we found center seats in a middle row, easily the best seats I've had since I began coming on Christmas Eve 1995.

And, miracle of Christmas eve miracles, not a soul took the two seats directly in front of us.

That's certainly never happened, either.

I heard a guy behind me say to his buddies, "We've been coming to this for what, three, four years now?"

Son, get back with me when you're on your eighteenth year in those butt-numbing seats on Christmas eve.

As usual, we were told of the presence of the gentleman who had first visited the Byrd the week it opened in 1928.

It's an impressive thing to see him there every Christmas eve, but it'll be a sad day when he's no longer there to be introduced.

Then came the big news.

Organist Bob Gulledge had thrown out his back, so there was to be no Christmas singalong tonight.

Holiday horrors!

I mean, I felt bad for Bob, at home stretched out on his living room floor, but after eighteen years, I kind of look forward to that corny singalong with the lyrics on the screen and Bob pumping enthusiastically on the Mighty Wurlitzer.

But we all have our crosses to bear.

I was just sorry that the first-timer with me had to miss out on this seminal Byrd tradition.

But then the credits rolled and I was lost in Bedford Falls and the loose-limbed, expressive-faced George Bailey and his simple little life.

No matter how many times I see the movie, I always appreciate the gorgeous black and white tones of it, the period details and the story of how each of us touches so many others.

And lines like, "Boys and girls and music. Why do they need gin?"

And while my companion had seen bits and pieces of it over the years on TV, he'd never seen it as Capra intended it to be seen.

So afterwards, I asked what had struck him most about the sweet little story.

It was the scene after the run on the bank, when George and Mary use their honeymoon money to save the Building and Loan.

When George returns to his "house," he finds that Mary has created a cozy, welcoming "home" with travel posters in the windows, music playing and chickens roasting on a rotisserie powered by a wooden spool on the phonograph.

"Welcome home, Mr. Bailey," she says sweetly of the wedding night scenario she has wrought for her new husband.

And while it is a charming scene, I'd never seen it quite the way it had struck him.

If ever a woman secured her place in a man's heart, it had to be with giving him that warm, stable and loving welcome after an afternoon from hell.

Talk about the perfect gift.

And an ideal reminder of why it really is a wonderful life.

Boys and girls and music, it's that simple.

Gin optional. Rose and Brut, not so much.

An Awful Hole

Every Christmas Eve I go see "It's a Wonderful Life" at the Byrd Theater.

Which means that every year I wait in line to see a movie I know practically by heart in a sold-out theater.

It always starts with a singalong of Christmas songs to the organist's accompaniment, including a fabulous Power Point presentation that dates back to the '90s and provides the lyrics for easy reference.

New this year was a "canine chorus" to one song, created by the organist blending chords or something like that (or so I was told by a nearby music geek) to get the barking sound.

Also this year was a new high in the level of obnoxious attendees.

Moments after the film started, just as we were seeing the first of downtown Bedford Falls, a guy in the back row answered his phone.

"Oh, hey," he said loudly enough for me to hear rows away. "Yea, I'm at the Byrd watching a movie..."

The sheer nerve of it was startling. When he continued, several of us proceeded to shush him until he hung up.

Further along in the movie, he talked some more. Loudly and inappropriately, he acted like he was watching a movie in his man cave and could say whatever he wanted.

And then for something truly new and different on Christmas Eve at the Byrd, management came in and asked him to leave (he declined), tackled him and removed him.

The movie continued uninterrupted until the girl behind me got bored and started giving time updates to her mother every five minutes, as if that was going to make the movie end sooner.

Sometimes she talked to the screen. "Are you kidding?" she asked disgustedly at one point to something Jimmy Stewart said.

But that's okay. During the singalong to "White Christmas," I had been struck by an emotional feeling of shared holidays with strangers.

And this is a film that can bring a tear to the eye of strong men; as a friend and I discussed the other night, both of us have seen it happen to unlikely guys.

And if any movie can make you appreciate your own life, this is the one.

"Strange isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"


Mine may not be perfect, but I'm absolutely certain I'd leave a hole.

Knotty, Not Nice

It must be Christmas Eve because I spent the whole day baking and cooking. The only other day that even comes close in terms of that kind of labor for me is Thanksgiving, but even then there's no baking involved.

And there wouldn't have been baking involved today if I hadn't been so incredibly busy this week, which necessitated me putting it off again and again.

But three kinds of cookies got baked today, so it all worked out fine (except when I had to reach an upper cabinet and grabbed a stool to do so only to crack my head on the open cabinet door on my way up; the knot on my head has been throbbing ever since).

I only mention this because between the cooking and baking, once I got back from my walk, there was no leaving the house until after dinner. Way too much to do before my five guests arrived.

But arrive they did and seemed to enjoy all the food I'd made for our dinner, the preparation of which had consumed my day. I was just glad I don't have to do all this again until next November.

Post-dinner we met friends at the Byrd Theater for their annual screening of "It's a Wonderful Life" and a singalong with Bob Gulledge on the Mighty Wurlitzer. I don't want to upset anyone who wasn't there, but you missed the canine chorus to "Jingle Bells," a new addition to Bob's repertoire.

One of my friends who saw the movie for the first time only last year, asked me if I still enjoy it after seeing it every Christmas Eve for the past fifteen years. And I do.

I will always enjoy Jimmy Stewart's superb performance. As I've mentioned here before many times, I'm a huge fan of period details and this film spans 1919 to 1945, so it's full of them. High school students wear tuxes to their graduation party, Italians are referred to as "garlic eaters." and toll collectors wear change holders on their belt, much the way ice cream men once did. It's like a cultural history lesson.

Honestly, I doubt I could ever tire of the sweet story of how one person's life affects so many others. Despite not feeling connected in ways that wish I were now, I know better than to think that everyone would have been better off if I'd never been born.

Based on what I've been told, I know a few people who would have lost their best audience with my absence (entertain me and I can really laugh).

And if nothing else, I hope somebody would have missed my winning smile, can-do attitude and cute tights. Maybe the tights manufacturers?

It's (Not) A Wonderful Life

I didn't get what I really wanted for Christmas, despite a whole lot of hoping and wishing (I'm not the praying sort). I didn't expect to, but it would have salvaged the year if I had. Perhaps I should have written a letter to Santa and spelled it out.

Dashed hopes aside, I've been going to the Byrd for "It's a Wonderful Life" on Christmas Eve for over a decade now. I think it's a great way to spend that evening and at this point, I practically know the dialogue by heart. But this year, it got to me like it never had before and tears fell pretty much throughout the entire movie; it was not the best way to experience it. And, on top of that, I realized going in to the theater that I'd lost my wallet. Sigh.

Christmas Day I drove to the Northern Neck to see the 'rents without a driver's license (obviously) and in the pouring rain. It's usually not a bad drive, but the weather and my mood were not cooperating. One of my presents was a gift certificate to Victoria's Secret, but given the state of my love life, it seemed frivolous and unnecessary. I thanked them sincerely anyway.

Shopping at VS today, I was surprised to see so many couples in the store choosing lingerie together. I suppose if you're going to wear pretty underthings , you may as well get your partner's input on what they like, right? One of the couples even had their kids with them as she held up thongs and demi-bras for his approval. It was kind of unsettling or maybe I was just resentful that no one will be seeing my new pretties. I know, I know, my attitude sucks.

The best thing about this Christmas is that it means 2009 is almost over and, as the worst year I've ever had to live through, that can't come soon enough. And for those without X-ray vision glasses, I'll be wearing some of the loveliest lingerie I may have ever owned in 2010. If only my attitude could be half as lovely in the new year.