December

It being December and post-Christmastime with a looming new year feels a little like showing up for class half an hour late. I think I get it. Wait, what? Did I miss that part. Yep, yep I got it... eh.

Here is where I write introspection. What a year. What a time to be alive. 
But I have nothing worthwhile to say about it. Lots of my more sociable friends have had the hardest time staying home, not seeing people or going places. They have felt lonely and disconnected and bored. I know this has been a sad doozie of a year. I don't mean to discount that for all the folks that lost someone or something dear. Apart from the uncertainty and health hazards and political unrest and assorted surgeries that my family seemed to be competing with one another to collect, I've loved this year. I won't harp about it because it seems to be a jerk-like outlook and I wouldn't want to expose my true self.

This month included a number of wee celebrations - including one wild night where we ventured out to a real restaurant and ate inside of it.

Here's a picture of Brett when he found out he passed his test and was receiving notes of congratulations. I regret that it looks a bit like he's sitting on the commode. 

We continued our dog training, rushed to finish watching Dexter before it leaves Netflix, did lots of hearty cooking, and lightly decorated for Christmas. I've spent lots of time with Mops lately, musing about the season and watching a British drama series about a scandalous pregnancy in Victorian high society. It's a wild time. 
Pops had a light knee surgery (removed some inflamed cartilage) and is back to hobbling around for a little while. Meanwhile, Ellen developed a huge, rashy growth on her thigh that had to be lanced the day after Christmas. 
Special!

Here is Grace wishing terrible things upon me for not letting her inside. 

Also this month, I discovered that Grace is the reason that my makeshift raised-bed-garden was becoming shallow and flattened. This had been plaguing me, until I caught her in the act. Also, Pippa punched a hole in our button chair. Once punctured, she saw no reason not to inspect its inner workings and deposit them around the house. She admitted remorse after the fact. 

I had my last wedding of the year. It created a shockingly large mess in the shop that Mom found particularly amusing. We set up this wedding and then waited in the car for the ceremony to end. We had to transfer the ceremony decor into the reception space. During our wait, Mom became fascinated with the wedding guest's attire and behavior. She giggled and gasped and proclaimed her objections with fervor. I love watching her watch things.

Brett and I had an early Christmas supper with his family ...

... and wound up spending Christmas Eve and Christmas Day on my side of things. 

We ate a big meal and told riotous airport stories and passed Olivia around like the Stanley Cup. She's on the brink of walking which just feels wrong. She tolerated her poofy Christmas ballgown quite well, refusing to allow it to hinder her explorations.

Since then Bubbles and I have planned a few more big meals for the year, attempted and failed to deliver baked good to our neighbors (no one answered the doors), and have concocted some schemes of home improvement. 

This morning I finished reading my 26th book of the year. I don't suppose I'll get to that again until retirement age. In some ways I'm proud. That's much better than 2600 hours of tv but it also speaks to my un-productiveness factor, which normally would seem like just another day but in this case it seems like I spent a year sitting on my boney butt and offering nothing to society. 

Hmm. Perhaps, it was just another year. 

Here's my stack on the far right, give and take a few titles.

I've got some hopes for next year, which is unlike me. I won't bore you with them. Starting a brand new year without having the standard situation to expect has me somewhat enlivened. I've ranted before about my amusement of people who think January is a reset button. How I let out hateful snickers at people who talk to a numbered year like a villain they have slain. Things like this make me not like me much. 
But now, with the Covid and all, who knows what will happen! Will we have a second lockdown? Another year of Brett working from home? Will I have another wimpy year of weddings? What's Biden going to do? Will someone I love get really sick? Will I try to publish my book? Will Ellen have baby number two in her belly by Christmas? 

What if the Covid vaccine makes people grow tails?

I'm intrigued.