And so this is Christmas...

As I sit snuggled on the couch, feet toasty in an early present to myself, I watch the opulence of the final shopping day of the season on the Today Show and I reflect on how hard it must be for my good friend who lost her father yesterday.

So, rather than reflecting on the lights, the rush and the pretty presents, I'm thinking about Shannon's loss and the gift she had. Shannon shared her father's birthday - it was probably the earliest sign of how close they would be throughout her life. And, whether it was due to their shared sign or just their blood, they also had matching personalities. Dad Goodman was smart, intensely protective of his loved ones, deeply caring but quiet with regard to those feelings and he loved the freedom of his motorcycle.

Not many people get to know her at this level (she is her father's daughter, after all), so while listening to Shannon's tears, the story of her loss and the true sense of being lost over the phone, I want to be there to provide a shoulder, an ear - whatever she needs - all the while knowing nothing can make this better.

Yesterday, Shannon lost her best friend. And, now, I understand the meaning of a Blue Christmas.

The best Christmas EVER

I think most of us have a special holiday memory - one that, should no other holiday stand out, will forever be THE memory. For me, this memory is Christmas of '81.

You see, every year, my family would drive to Oak Ridge, Tennessee to spend Christmas with Aunt Kathy and Uncle Lou. Grandma was there each year too... and since 1976, my aunt and uncle added a new face to the family every two and a half years (they stopped after 81).

As we arrived, the most amazing sight was the glimmer of the bubble lights on Aunt Kathy's tree. (I put them on my tree to this day). Each Christmas Eve, we would turn off the room lights, sit in front of the fireplace with hot drinks, talk about our Christmas wishes and stare at the beauty that was the Christmas tree. Then, each of us kids was directed to our respective beds.

In 1981, though, because the number of kids was growing and the number of rooms was not, I was set to sleep in the formal living room - which overlooked the downstairs. Aunt Kathy came around to tuck us all in bed and I drifted off to sleep with the sounds of my parents, Aunt and Uncle still talking over the soft music downstairs.

I awoke to a room lit only by the stars outside the front window and a sound I KNEW was Santa. I rubbed the sand from my eyes and crept to look down at the tree. And that is when it happened. Innocence was lost. I spied Uncle Lou playing with a game that only Santa was to setup. The toys Santa left each year were the only ones not wrapped when we gathered in the morning and Uncle Lou was putting mine together! After a few moments of taking it all in, I slipped back to the couch and went back to sleep.

Please understand, it was a bittersweet moment. I had reached the age that I was fairly certain about Santa's existence or lack thereof and now I had my proof. However, there was a joy I saw in my Uncle that night...a smile that I have since learned is rarely seen outside of my presence. It is a smile I will always remember and a moment I cherish.

Who's your Daddy?

Tuesday was just not a great day. Nothing craptacular of note, just nothing good with a few "seriously!"'s thrown in for good measure...but enough of a notably "not good" day that I struggled to smile through dinner with friends - even with two shots of tequila.

So, Wednesday, I decided, would be better. On my way to the office, I stopped and picked up a Starbucks Hot Chocolate sprinkled with just a skosh of espresso for pep. (I don't normally drink caffeine and never drink coffee, but I was stacking the deck). As I sat at the light on a calm back road just a third of a mile from the office, I repeated aloud: "It will be a better day. It will be a better day. It will - " -----BOOM!! A car hit me from behind. Really.

No damage to the car, just a little spilled hot cocoa and a reminder of who is in charge.

Christmas time!

I know, I know... it's been a while - as Karen says, maybe the muses left me. Somewhat, but not entirely, true. I have been thinking about writing on many different topics, but my memory lasts as long as a spark when you're trying to light a campfire with two rocks and a wet stick. So, here goes:

This time of year brings out the best in some people! It's an awesome sight. And, then, there's the woman from the Indigo Girls concert the other night. I was in the SRO section, standing farther back than I wanted originally, but still able to see with the assistance of the sloping floor. That is, until she stepped in front of me and stopped in the dead center of my view. Now, here's the deal...I will add descriptors here because I'M TELLING A STORY, but none of them are at the heart of the issue.

The woman, it turns out, was most probably a man. And, the woman with him may very well have been his/her daughter. These two points are made only because the woman was much taller than average - somewhere around 6'5" (no lie). The younger woman - a friend decided in her Hallmark Channel watching mind- was his daughter. My friend felt sympathy for their apparent plight (the struggle of living your life judged by many and not comfortable in your own skin matched with the wrestling of a child seeing her parent in this struggle) and the tear-jerking story they were undoubtedly living. I was just interested in seeing the show. When I tapped the tall woman's shoulder and said, "DUDE, I'm standing right here!" the response I got back was, "I'm sorry I'm tall." REALLY?

Let me set the record straight because I am - most of the time - a really nice person. I could not actually care less about how she dressed and her relationship with the other woman.

The fact of the matter is it doesn't matter if you are man or woman, tall or short, fat or thin, old or young and of any race, religion or persuasion... RUDE IS RUDE.