As my man Andy Williams might sing. Or Dino jazzing up Let it Snow.
Doesn’t matter.
I love the sounds of Christmas except the sounds yesterday were from our chattering teeth due to our heating unit freezing up on us. They got here at 8am and finished at 3pm.
Fast, efficient, and they left a very clean workplace.
And now we are warm. More warmth to come as I prep the fireplace for our first fire.
Lights are popping up everywhere, even out in the farms and houses out in the less-travelled areas.
I love it.
My light display was slowed by a two-day respite from the recent frigid weather. It is supposed to heat up tomorrow at which time I will finish my outdoor lights. Oh yeah, I also have a deer and a Snoopy and Woodstock characters.
I have plenty of lights and I will have the fight which we have every single year after Christmas: can I keep the lights up year-round?
She let me do it last year.
She probably felt guilty for denying my previous thirty-one requests, but still, it was a cool year.
I think the Living Room will get done tonight with the den probably tomorrow.
I just flashed back to walking the narrow streets of a small English village in the Midlands. It was December 24th and my girlfriend lived there. There were at least a hundred houses we walked past and not one was decorated with Christmas lights or decorations of any kind. I did see a couple cutouts of Father Christmas, but not one light!
Freaky.
Christmas has turned into so much more AND less due to the commercialization of and bastardizing of the whole Spirit of the Season. (Sing it Bingo. White Christmas. Classic.)
Our neighborhood is not the biggest, but every house appears to have some sort of lighting or decorations.
Very cool.
I am starting to get packages in and I was acting very stealthily as I brought the boxes from the porch into my office.
Karen let me do the whole spy routine while I thought I was being so clandestine.
After a third load and the subsequent hiding them behind my guitars and amplifier, she let me know about everything in the packages because me, Mr. MENSA IQ, paid for them with one of her credit cards.
Sweet.
Not undetectable.
That is where you would put a text bubble that shows my face turning crimson red.
Man does that Johnny Mathis have a voice.
I’ve been called the Mexican Johnny Mathis—Juanny Mathis.
I will have to get my wrapping done while watching my new 60” TV which was just mounted over the fireplace.
I wish you all great feelings of joy and friendship.
We will all be dead soon enough.
Stay well.
Mark's Playhouse 