Eleven is nearly here. The long vigil is over. The inn is quiet, save the sound of the waiters clearing the last of the tables from the lingering guests. Outside all is dark. The only break is a strand of christmas lights around the porch of the cafe across the street. Lady Marmalade filters in from the kitchen.

In a few minutes I will go back home and pick up andrea, and we'll rush to the sing-a-long at the Old Mission Santa Ines and the midnight mass. Neither of us are Catholic, but its the only service late enough. We'll both be up before six tomorrow. Work two shifts, then fall into bed. In the few hours between jobs we'll head to Ken and Grandma's to open a few presents. The rest we'll save for later.

I wish everyone could cook at home for Christmas. Gather their families around them in their own houses. Enjoying being hospitable and hosting. Instead, around here, precious few have the luxury of a day off. For the shopkeepers, and waiters, and clerks, and drivers, can look forward to impatience and rudeness and clamour all of this best of days. We did choose our lot, I suppose. But wouldn't it make sense on just one day for everything to close. So everyone could equally enjoy their families and relaxation...and not just another day of drudgery and frustration. And the drunks that just won't leave at the end of the night. When all you want to do is go home, walk right past the Christmas tree and stocking still brimming with presents you've neither had the time nor energy to open, and sleep until St. Patricks day. But the next morning you've got to check out the post-Christmas hangover crowd, with their children wild from the sugar-high. Or go to work three hours early to make signs for the day-after-Christmas sales. Or wait on tables who have the post-holiday-my-presents-weren't-as-great-as-the-ones-I-gave-blues.

So bah-humbug everyone! I'm sure my spirits will align themselves at church this evening...and I'll be able to celebrate the season with the best of them....until the first idiot tomorrow night complains about how crappy house wine is. You GET what you PAY FOR!

On the plus side, we do get time-and-a-half.....Merry Christmas!

Part Eight:

To make my french hen look more like a chicken or a goose...that is the question...

Stocking Saga, Part Seven:

My goose does not lay golden eggs, but freshwater pearl instead. And even she can't be too proud for a silk grass nest....if she's that picky, tis the season for foie gras....

Part Six:

My Lord of the Dance is unhapily missing a leg, due to my running a bit short of teal ribbon. Perhaps he is not mearly a-leaping, but the little tin soldier as well. Hopefully he will stick to the story, as the Disney version did not.

I'm at work. On Christmas eve, and Christmas, and every day after. Why are patrons at this time of year more unbearable than any other? Is it the peace on earth or goodwill towards men which makes them cross, impatient and demanding. It must be the Christmas Spirit which possesses the screaming children and posturing parents. Truly, if this is the best we can do for the Season, we'd do better to forget it entirely.

Part Five:
I've now got everything done but the left leg of my Lord-a-leaping, One goose-a-laying, one french hen, and a drummer boy....I have eight hours ahead to finish it though....Merry Christmas Eve to all!