NOTE: This blog was typed yesterday. I simply forgot to post it.
In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven; where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too.
Charles Dickens' description of Christmas evening, with the stores closed up and people safely ensconced at home, stuffing their faces with goose and plum pudding, pretty accurately captures one of my favorite times of the holidays. The bustle of shopping and cooking and gift-wrapping is over. Everyone takes a deep breath and relaxes.
I love that time. I don't mind the preparations; I get some enjoyment out of shopping and making cookies. But I don't like the sustained stress of the days before Christmas. And last night, for me, felt like one of those pre-Christmas days. In fact, it was like Christmas Eve, 2 a.m., when I'm surrounded by unwrapped gifts and half-drunk cups of egg nog.
I was helping my wife get ready for her rummage sale. I was pricing clothing, hauling boxes, hanging up signs, and bitching the whole time. I hate rummage sales and garage sales and yard sales. If you've been reading my blog over the last couple days, you already know my feelings about these backyard flea markets. They're a lot of work for a little bit of money.
That's what I'm dealing with right now. A lot of strangers on our lawn, rifling through all our old crap. I can hardly wait for it to be over. I just want my Christmas goose, and let's skip all the other stuff.
Saint Marty's for sale today. Everything must go.
Confessions of Saint Marty