Well, I'm up to something like 27,000 words right now. Of course, I'm supposed to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 40,000, so clearly I've got some catching up to do. It will help that I've been recovering from gall bladder surgery for the last 48 hours, since I have it on good authority that many of the best authors in the world - Sylvester Stallone, for instance - have produced some of their finest work while under the influence of Relief Society dinners.
23: I'm thankful for Christmas music. Around here, the Christmas CDs make their appearance on November 1, and I apologize to no one for the early start.
Until this year, I've always been up to my nalgas in concert season during the weeks immediately preceding Christmas, and if I want to actually enjoy the music of the holidays, I have to do it early, before the traditional plague of laryngitis sweeps through my choir, strategically wiping out all of my strong voices while perversely imbuing that ONE singer in every section (whom I'd been hiding behind the good singers in the hopes no one would notice he was there) with super powers that enable him to sing loudly enough to be heard on the international space station.
Along with making things difficult for the poor choir director in question, it also explains why astronauts are particularly ornery this time of year. I keep telling them, "Roll up your windows, you silly international space station dudes, my choir is running amok again" but they still insist the frightening noises have to do with bad solar panels or possibly aliens.
When it comes to Christmas music, I'm a Philistine from way back. Now, this is where I really run afoul of most folks in my industry. Given the choice between curling up with a good book and a mug of hot chocolate, and listening either to Benjamin Britten's "Ceremony of Carols" or "The Carpenters Christmas Album", sadly, Ben and the boys hardly even put up a fight.
Bing, Perry, Nat, Judy, Karen -- these are the stars who top my Christmas charts, leaving poor GF Handel peeking in the windows and promising that if I'll just let him in, he'll keep it light and will not, under any circumstances, mention the word "Hallelujah."
Don't get me wrong. I'm not a complete sap, a total pushover for the next pop fad or attempt to tug at the ol' heartstrings. Anyone menacing my family with tales of waifs needing shoes for their mothers' funerals will have their egg nog confiscated without further argument. Christmas is supposed to be a happy time, dammit, and I'll have none of that "I'll build you a rainbow" drivel in my home, no matter how many times it reduces you to tears and makes you feel so darn bad for that poor little Jamie. Go bawl into your Faith Hill lap blanket.
I do love the long-hair stuff, of course. But at Christmastime, I can't help myself. Hard as I try, I always end up partying with the Philistines.
In fact, I'd love to stick around and explain further, but right now Jose Feliciano is singing "Feliz Navidad", and whenever he does that, my kids and I just gotta dance.
When was the last time you did that to "Wolcum, Yole"?
Yeah. I thought so.