What Happened to December?

Serious question: If someone sends you a Christmas present in the mail, do you unwrap it upon receipt or do you put it under your tree and open it on Christmas Day?

I bombed out in fantasy football this year. Kudos to Chapin, who won the Blogger Fantasy League by taking down weese's adorable MAW in a rollover brutal finale. Add a rousing hand of applause for our amazing Commissioner, sporks. Girl, you rock. I'm already looking forward to next season.

My office relocated last week. In our previous building, we were on the first floor. We are now ensconced on the seventh floor of a building ten blocks north and three blocks east. We have a panoramic view of Old Town Alexandria and the Potomac River.

There are 120 stairs from the lobby to the seventh floor. The stairwells are clean, bright and well-marked. Going up, I am slightly winded by the fifth floor, the eighty-eighth step if one happens to count. Pathetic? Maybe. I prefer to think of it as having room for improvement.

There are elevators, of course. But I'd rather walk. Because I can. It's good for me. Obviously I need it.

Christmas offered a nice dose of family bonding, and oh my, what a diverse family we have. Soldier Boy dressed up for the occasion. This marked my fortieth or so Christmas in the DC area. None of them have been white. Weather wishes notwithstanding, the holiday was nice. What comes next will be nice too. My slippers are, of course, joining us for the next leg of our traditional year end festivities.

2008.
Ready or not.
Here we come!

.

An(other) Impromptu Poll

Location: Snazzy waterfront restaurant in Old Town, Alexandria

Occasion: A festive office gathering, shamelessly called the Christmas Party by everyone but me. I refer to it as the Holiday Party because I strive to exude political correctness in the office environment. Someday I may work somewhere it matters.

Attendees: The three owners of the company, a recently retired ex-owner, and three employees. Two female, five male. Age range mid-thirties to early sixties, three of us in our forties.

The conversation turned to massages. It wafted down and came to rest near my plate, which, until that point, had captured my attention ever since the discreet and ever-so-proper server seamlessly slipped it in front of me while refilling my wine glass with a very nice pinot. Pan-seared scallops in a light ginger sauce artistically surrounded an interesting layered mound of white rice, bok choy and spinach. I was a bit distracted, obviously.

I looked up when I heard my name. "Suzanne," a co-worker queried, "Have you ever had a professional massage?"

"Sure," I replied. "You?"

To my amazement, none of my other dinner companions has ever known the sheer pleasure, the delightful indulgence, of a professional massage.

Frankly I was a bit surprised. It left me wondering. So I ask you, gentle readers of the blogosphere, have you ever had a professional massage? If no, why not?

.

I Have a Long Neck

The average temperature here is in the 20s this week. We have snow on the ground. And in the trees and bushes and all other things outdoors. It's not melting. I'm okay with that. The scenery is glorious.

My turtlenecks, the staple of my winter wardrobe, all of them, are still in storage in our attic. I'm not okay with that.

I cannot be the only one who feels it: truly, is there anything more comforting as one dresses on a frigid winter morn than pulling on a fresh-smelling turtleneck as the base for what will layer into pleasing and seasonally-appropriate attire? My turtlenecks. I wear them everywhere. My winter foundation.

Yet now, when I need them most, they languish in the attic.

See, it's rather a production to retrieve them. My winter clothes are heavy; the container, loving packed last spring, is unwieldy. The attic stairs, while expertly installed, are more like a ladder and, as such, are fraught with peril should one attempt to navigate them bearing heavy loads. It's a job for Two and I never seem to think about it when Two are home.

Our storage systems are less than perfect.
We make do.
Or do without, as the case may be.


Note to self: Next house, bigger closets.

.