O, fucking holidays.

I am never going to have firmer abs and slimmer thighs with the damned holidays lingering--I just had a croissant and two bites of fudge for breakfast. Cripes.

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Had several remarkably vicious dreams last night/this morning--lots of drownings and maiming and heartbroken sobbing. Hard to feel rested, but I'm doing fairly well so far--I think that the Brunch was contributing more stress than I'd realized. Having it over is a relief--now all I have to get through are two more parties, a date with Boy's new toy on Friday, cabin on saturday/sunday, back down here for christmas eve dinner with Dad and ESTB, christmas day breakfast and the first round of presents with them too, then back up to the cabin with grandmother and great-aunt in tow for the second round of presents and christmas day dinner with mom and illustrious stepfather and kid sis and both brothers, only to come back down again that evening so I can be at work on time on the 26th.

No sweat.

Hell, I did it last year--and I did it alone, only to come home on the evening of the 25th to begin a six hour phone conversation with Boy, which left me two hours to sleep before work, after which we had our first date and made out in Nicky, the Little Gay Truck...and the rest is silly, romantic history.

Then the Psd to HTML or PSD to CSS conversion is carried out by hard coding the image to fit into HTML frames or layers

I used to think that when I grew up and got married and had children, I'd be able to control how my holidays worked--I could make them come to me, instead of dragging everyone everywhere--but I realize now that will never ever happen. This is how my holidays have worked for seventeen years, and this is how they'll work until my parents are old and senile and infirm and they'll be living with me, all four of them, I'll be changing their diapers and fetching their newspapers and helping them figure out The Online "why won't this work?! I clicked it, I just know I did!" and then, maybe after they're so old that all they do is sleep (although I've also learned that the older you are, the less sleep you need, apparently, so they'll probably take that to heart and never sleep) I can have a peaceful christmas where I stay in my own home and my own bed andthe presents under my own tree...Ehh, maybe.

Truth be told--I like having two christmases. Always have, disregarding the immense traveling time. Who wouldn't love twice the presents? Sheesh.

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I am shivery-freezing today, and it's the fault of my damned shirt. I'm wearing my gorgeous white-on-white pinstriped shirt with the french cuffs, the one that I usually wear the black-rhinestone bra under, because I'm a slut like that? and I just know that my niblets are poking.

The cold apple cider I'm drinking (almost typed driving there, which is bizarre. my brain moves in mysterious ways, and right now it's got me on my knees) isn't helping, I'm sure. I have a feeling my boss thinks it's something other than apple cider, and with good reason--it's all brown and murky and i'm drinking (not driving) it from a pilsner glass, and appearance is half the battle.

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My stupid Mini-Zen Garden is sitting up on my monitor, just taunting me with its damp dirt and hibernating seeds--didn't I mention? You've got to grow the damned thing yourself. I made Boy laugh last night when I told him--I planted the seeds yesterday, in the teaspoon of dirt they provide, and watered it carefully...returned two and a half hours later, after the world's Most Excruciating Meeting EVER, and honest-to-god, I was surprised it hadn't already sprouted into a little tree.

I am going fucking nuts, that's the only explanation. At least I'm not the only one, right? All those crazy people on the Buffy reruns right now--and the saddest Buffy episode was on last night, the one where Joyce dies, and I swear to god it took about three seconds for me to start bawling. And then Boy comes home three hours late and I was all sad and frowny and it SO was not his fault, but I just couldn't help it. It got better after we'd crawled into bed and listened to some Etta James and just talked, which is pretty much the non-drug equivalent of Ambien for me--just get me talking while I'm in a horizontal position and I'll be snoring away in no time.

How's that for amusing--I talk myself to sleep. I can only imagine what I do to you poor people reading this--I envision y'all sitting at your desks, head on keyboards, drooling between the keys. Oh, and I'm sorry for calling you 'fuckers' yesterday. It was completely inappropriate. I meant to say, "not a single suggestion from you Dirty Motherfucking Bastard People".

Just wanted to clear that up.

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People have some pretty nasty opinions of webloggers. Just so you know. I've got a nasty opinion of most of them, so I should watch what I'm saying--or at least, that's what I thought, I thought I should watch what I'm saying and doing and telling you--but I repeated my Weblog Mantra: This Is For Me. If You Are Entertained, Great. But This Is For Me, So Shut The Hell Up. or whatever, and really--if you all stopped reading, I would still write this blahblahblah.

Just so you know. More clarifying.

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Do I really look like a complete idiot with a scarf wound completely around my neck in an attempt to counteract the niblet-poking? No more idiotic than that girl who keeps trying to type with her mittens on.

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Still no ideas for the Anniversary Present (now so pressing an issue that it requires capitalization). Any suggestions would be met with Much Gratitude and even some Heartfelt Thanks