Happy Holidays, The Longest Month

7:45 on Sunday. I took both dogs out to the back yard to go potty. According to the forecasters yesterday, there should be a few inches of snow out there. There is none. Copious amounts of rain, but no snow. So I send the dogs out there and Scout cheerfully does her thing, squat and pee, then run around a bit trying to get Chandler to play. Chandler runs out into the yard, stops, then turns around and runs back to me so he can bury his face between my legs. Chandler hates rain. He hates snow, he hates airplanes rats and garbage trucks. Chandler hates a lot of things, but he loves me and my dry pants where he is now trying to wipe the rain off his face. I'm sure when I wake up in the morning there will be some snow out in the yard, but I'm not so sure we'll have the foot of snow the television people are breathlessly predicting.

What I can predict is that by Monday afternoon I will be so sick of turkey and all the side dishes that go with it, that I will be tossing what's left in the garbage. By the end of the week I will be totally sick of Christmas shopping and the blowing up of my budget and I will put a freeze on spending. I will also become Mark's Christmas servant. I will be forced to drag all the Christmas crap up from the basement and help Mark put up the Christmas tree. Here is the worst part of the coming month. It's not the tree, not the shopping, not the fact that I will eat too much food, or the possibility of snow. No, the worst part is my upcoming birthday. I hate birthdays.