"Let us go forth a while, and get better air in our lungs. Let us leave our closed rooms...
The game of ball is glorious."

--Walt Whitman

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

Hallmark, This Isn't

So it occurred to me the other day that we, meaning the hubby and I, haven't actually gotten any holiday cards (yet) this year. Which isn't all that surprising, really, since I'm a pagan and he's too lazy to be agnostic. We don't tend to get a whole lot Christmas cards anyway.

I like cards, though. There's something about a greeting card. It's kind of like a postcard the mailman can't read and that you don't have to think about what to write in. Open, sign, seal. Done! I'm not so good about sending them, though. I've still got a pair of Halloween cards I picked up four years ago. Every year I rediscover them the first week of November.

I don't like the sentimental ones much, though. Sympathy cards are all well and good--who knows what to say when someone dies or falls horribly ill?--but if my birthday makes you all teary-eyed, keep it to yourself, please. I'm over thirty, I need a good belly laugh on my birthday. Especially since my belly decided to maintain a circumference approximate to my age.

My mother and her best friend are masters of the funny greeting card. I don't know where they find these things, but you're guaranteed a giggle when you see their handwriting on the envelope. One year they gave each other the same Christmas card. (It was, apparently, a particularly good one.)

I'll conclude this mostly pointless ramble with a complete digression--the Christmas dinner menu!

Pork tenderloin in apricot chardonnay sauce
Garlic & herb potatoes
Corn on the cob
Sourdough rolls (with herbed butter)
...and an apple pie.

Update: So I get home after writing this to find three cards in the mail. Go figure.

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