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Even Santa feels it sometimes, dear reader. GOOD GRIEF. HOW MANY MORE OF THESE STINKING IPODS DO I HAVE TO ASSEMBLE? In truth, one shudders at the prospect of Santa working with motherboards, doesn't one? Then again, he's got plenty of fresh air just out the door of his studio, the really pure air that you get at the North Pole. One breath of that and he'd sit back down and think things over. DO I REALLY WANT TO GO POSTAL? SLAUGHTER ALL THE REINDEER OUT THERE SINGING CAROLS? IF THEY'D ONLY SHUT UP FOR FIVE MINUTES.



And that, dear reader, is surely the crux. It's the pressure. Each day creeps closer to the Big One and I STILL HAVEN'T GOT A TREE OR A WREATH OR ONE SINGLE GIFT OR ANY REASON TO LIVE.

Women especially fall into this trap of course. The good ones, the good mommies, make cookies and send cards and do all the little things that make the holiday special. The bad ones make plans to meet friends in bars and screw the cookies. I will leave the reader to guess which group I am in.












The only way out of this pressurized dilemma is Making Lists and Managing Time. As a Virgo, I adore lists to start with. So soon I will be doing it. Just not today.

Today I am still buried with papers and when I take a break it is to read The Gravedigger's Daughter by Joyce Carol Oates, my idol. Her works grip me as no others. I think my eyes are wider when I'm reading. You just know that something really bad is going to happen to somebody and I know that sounds simplistic as all hell, but it's compelling to read.

Time to buy the Bailey's or at least Emmett's (who can afford Bailey's?).
Thanks to Norman Rockwell, Readers Digest and Edouard Manet.

A bientot and a big fa la.
love,
becky

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