I love the holiday season. I really do. Despite being a cynical, grumpy bitch in general, I get dorky about Christmas.

Ever get just a happy, peaceful feeling on Christmas Day? Everything’s closed, people are driving to be with families… excited about opening gifts and a big meal…

Unless you don’t celebrate Christmas, of course. But still, you don’t have to go to work.

Unless you have to work, of course.

Moving on. I should just mention that I am feeling chatty tonight. It’s Friday. I had a long week. Forgive me.

Anyway. Growing up, we had a couple traditions. One: make a lot of cookies. Candy cane cookies, Russian Teacakes, Chocolate Crinkles… My mom had a Betty Crocker Cooky Book that I would pour through for ages looking for the best cookies to make.

But the best were Ethel’s Sugar Cookies. We’d make a batch (4 dozen) and the next day we’d gather around the kitchen table and frost and decorate them. I’d always have a friend or two over to help.

And then there was the decorating of the tree. We’d go out and get the tree, and whilst Dad was in the basement cutting off the bottom to even it out, Mom and I would go to the store and buy crackers and cheese and fruit, come home and put it all together for dinner. I used to take pride in my arrangement of the cheese and crackers.

When that was all set out, we’d start decorating. Both the tree and this shelf thing we had. My favorite was this little wooden village we had. It had houses, a church, trees, fences, and horses. And my mom had taken a mirror out of a compact for a skating rink. I’d put cotton stuffing around it to hide the sharp edges. I love that village.

In later step-dad years, the tradition remained pretty much the same, although he only helped put on the lights. He didn’t like decorating the tree. So our tradition was going to a nearby Italian place called The Coliseum and then going home to open gifts. I was so bummed when that placed closed. It’s a Greek place now. Which I won’t argue with.

In other news: I woke up late this morning and rushed to get out the door in time. It was a busy morning, but around noon I finally got a moment to breathe.

And realized—to my horror—that I was wearing two different shoes.

Shoes, people. Not socks, but shoes. I’m an idiot.

In my defense they’re slip-ons and were next to each other on the mat. And are similar in color. But man…