is what you haul home with you after being "home for Christmas" with your family.
How many outfits were trotted out in four days' time?
I guess you had to be there to know.
I'm not one to wash it here. (Notice, no photo?)
So. . .
May all your Christmases be as white as a white linen tablecloth under a nice plate of cookies (or whatever suits thy fancy), and may all the year's sins be forgiven and forgotten as next Saturday night turns to Sunday morning of the Saturnalian post-solstice end-of-calendar flip.
(Did you hear a jingle? Just the sound of a Salvation Army kettle dashing into a getaway car by the hands of a "rich man, poor man, begger man, thief!"?
(Is it "begger-man" or is it "baker man," as I used to sing in grade school?))
No matter, just leave your donations, silver, gold, verbal, here.
Curb Girl: what an urban-based accidental journalist accidentally thinks when she's falling face-first on figurative pavement
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