I woke this morning feeling sorry for myself – a visceral kind of downer emotion that was an easy background for negative thoughts. Crap! What a way to be in the Christmas season. And, for that matter, this isn’t so much the Christmas season, as it is Christmas itself anymore. Christmas isn’t a moment or a minute or even a day; it is an awareness – and it is worthy of cultivation.

Now, not only did I have to realize that enabling morose (I’ve made it a noun) is really stupid, and, am as I wont to tell my grandchildren “not in my best interest.” Then it hit me: Wow, my cousin is going into surgery this morning – in face, it is scheduled to begin at this very time I am typing. It is a delicate operation and things could go wrong; I am not on that operating table – I am cleaning the spot for the Christmas tree. But, wait, there’s more: Someone very dear to those of us here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse is also having a bit of a health problem that could lead to a hospital stay for observation.

We want the best for these people and our best Christmas present will be good things happening to them. I’d better shape up or my “kicked up the side of the head” situation will make me into someone they visit at the (cough) “home”.

We got our tree on Tuesday and it has been leaning against the corner where the house meets the fence out back. It’s in a bucket of water and is still wrapped in that net stuff.
So, I guess we need a swift kick in our Christmas spirit butts. Der Bingle is coming tonight and he probably thinks he will come in and find a decorated tree, sparkling with good cheer. I must put a good spin on this: We saved the tree so you could enjoy the warm family moments of Christmas Present. You know, the moments – more like many minutes – of getting the tree hauled in, straight in its stand, the lights untangled, extension cords located . . . Ah, yes, I think he may need some helping spirits – like eggnog or Sam Adams Christmas Ale or lots of Christmas Peeps.