Figgy pudding


This Christmas there was a distinct lack of figgy pudding and wassailing. I say that as if at some point in my life there was a surplus of of figgy pudding and wassailing, which is of course what makes the statement rip-roaringly, knee-slappingly funny. 

What I did have was an abundance of the ordinary, the delightful and the absurd. 




Place the following in the proper category above.

Cooking, baking, decorating, cleaning, shopping, wrapping, shipping, humming, crying while watching Hope Floats,  relaxing, eating, drinking Tom’s Creme de Noisette coffee, reading Floor Sample at 5 a.m., feeling alone, drooling on bonus check, discussing illegal immigration, being called a do-gooder, receiving nice surprises, being accused of being from a different planet, wondering what planet that might be, defending Hispanics, failing, resenting certain “friends” who haven’t sent a card in 2 years, listening to Robert Plant/Allison Krauss Raising Sand, making “art”, watching cat run through tissue paper,  sharing homemade cookies with office mates,  unwrapping, talking to man who was my husband for 12 years, wondering aloud, making & eating breakfast with kids, watching the Pope on TV, selecting an an orchid, tossing and turning, wearing new Brazilian quartz pendant, wishing I could wear it to bed, watching a tiny finch under the jasmine, turning air conditioning on, kissing cats, finding out my son’s friend said “That was your mom? I thought she was your sister.”


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