It seems like I ought to write about Christmas, or someone should, and at the moment I'm doing it. The question, though, is what one ought to write--I could write about what I got, which is boring enough to anyone but me (although I highly recommend the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf fat-free no-sugar-added powder, with one can make coffee beverage or a pretty good hot chocolate for two points). Reuben got better stuff, or cooler stuff anyway, but, I dunno, writing about stuff?
One might also write about what was eaten at Christmas, though that's pretty boring too this year since nothing was disastrous--the roast was overdone, as usual, but much less so than usual, with some pretty tolerable medium pieces in the middle, and the honeybaked ham was not heated to the point that all the honeybaked ran out onto the bottom of the over, but merely enough to be warm. Not interesting, not like the dry and boneless turkey, or the cinder-like roasts of yesteryear. Reuben cut it, so all the pieces were actually cut though, hence no need to exclaim (too loudly) Jesus, did [family member] cut this meat? (Which he had.)
There were plumbing issues, but they were resolved satisfactorily enough that a Christmas plumber call was not necessary, anticlimactically by a bottle of "foaming plumbing snake" or something like that. Which we plan to employ on the slow-draining bathroom sink, now that we know of its tremendous unclogging power.
There were babies there (and babies are anyone under four feet tall to me these days) who did some cute things and some loud things but nothing terribly remarkable.
Pretty boring and normal in its weirdness, except maybe for the one sad thing I'm not talking about, and that I'm not going to talk about. That was Christmas this year.