Did you miss me?  No, really, did you?  ’Cause I missed you a whole bunch!  Smoochies!

On to serious business.

My three holiday revelations:

Revelation #1:  Portable DVD players are just a great invention, right up there with smart phones and Soda Stream soda makers.  I borrowed a DVD player from friend Chin, and June barely cried the entire 11-hour drive down to Florida.  It wasn’t so much that Toy Story and that animated fish movie put her in a coma as it was the mere presence of music and color and possibly Tom Hanks’ voice that kept her calm.  She surrendered to it.  She didn’t even really watch the movies (Toy Story is a little advanced for a 17-month old). Every time I turned around she had her legs casually propped on the DVD player itself, thumb inserted in mouth and gaze out the window. Her mother enjoyed many uninterrupted hours of talk radio (code for “I am middle aged.”)

Revelation #2:  Over wine one night, my dad informed my brother, stepbrother and I that he nearly drowned.   Last August.  When I asked dad why he didn’t announce this little nugget of information earlier (for example, the day after it happened), dad shrugged and said, “I blogged about it.”  I can’t decide if this signifies a total breakdown of family communication or is simply the widest, most effective dispersal method of a dramatic event.  (*Note to self: Must read father’s blog daily.*)  To dad’s credit, he said it would have been too weird to call people and say, “Hey, I almost died….but didn’t.  What do you want for Christmas?”

Revelation #3:  The holidays are so much more fun with a toddler around.  Really, I can’t recommend a child enough to kick start a tired and cranky heart.  Only now I’m experiencing toy fatigue.  Every where I turn in my small house, I discover MORE FREAKIN’ TOYS.  Make the toys go away!

Revelation #4:  Only three months and change until Jake comes home from Afghanistan!   Let the countdown begin.

Gotta love those prices.
“Eggs, cheez, butter, grits,” plus your choice of sides–sausage, bologna, salmon, hash.  I’m seeing this as the next food truck trend.

Somebody didn’t get enough cheez grits.

It’s gonna be hard to go home.

Christmas Eve will find me…

Where the iPhone 4s light beams…

I’ll be home for Christmas…

With Siri in my dreams…

Merry Christmas!

This is Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  (Doesn’t this house just say “Grandparent’s House?” The wrought iron, the wraparound porch, the Christmas garlands…)

The porch says, warm December days, grandpa’s lap and sweet tea; easy, Southern living.

This door says, the house that Santa built.

The house that presents built, more like.

June likes presents. She just doesn’t know it yet.

This is also a house where people are very, very serious about their New York Times crossword puzzles–clipboard serious. When the clipboard comes out, please–don’t speak.

This is Grandma Tess, master of words. Seriously.  I pity the fool who challenges this sweet and loving grandma to a crossword puzzle….or Scrabble….or Trivial Pursuit.  She swiftly crushes opponents…then offers them a Christmas cookie.

And this is Grandpa Dave, my father, brandisher of clipboards and cleavers. A regular Father Christmas, this one.

I have profound respect for single moms.  Especially over the holidays.   I discovered how difficult it is to check into La Quinta Inn with a 1-year old and a pile of luggage including a pack-n-play all by myself (apparently there are no white gloved valets at La Quinta Inn?) during an 11-hour road trip from Virginia to Florida to spend Christmas with Grandma and Grandpa.

I had to leave June locked in our South Carolina hotel room all by herself, the Disney Channel cranked, her tiny fists clutching handfuls of Goldfish crackers, while I ran downstairs to unload the car of its mountain of crap, lug it back to the room, then dash outside again to park the car.   But you know what?  I did it!  And June was none the wiser.  By the time I got back to the room, her mouth was dusted with Goldfish crumbs, her eyes glued to the flat screen.  She finally turned to me with an expression that said, who are you?

Hey, whatever it takes.

June and I spent a lovely Thanksgiving up in Baltimore with Jake’s family.  For a place setting, everyone received a card in the shape of a pilgrim hat with a note of thanks on the back. Part of my note read: “Thanks for putting up with us.”

I have no idea what that meant,  though let me just say that at one point during the meal everyone was expected to wear these glasses.

Did you know sauerkraut is part of the traditional Baltimore Thanksgiving table?  I think it’s supposed to be some sort a palate cleanser along the lines of cranberry sauce, only not.   I really like it — a tart blast of acid to counterbalance all that gravy.  And boy, was there some gravy.

A picture of June and her daddy on the refrigerator.

The classic green bean casserole topped with French’s Fried Onions.   I saw a few of Jake’s siblings eat the Fried Onions right out of the container.  Right out of the container, I tell you!  Like they were chips!

A bowl literally overflowing with mashed potatoes.  Tip: For the best mashed potatoes of your life, do like they do in Baltimore and stir in an 8-ounce package of softened cream cheese. Guests will proclaim, “Wow, your mashed potatoes are so creamy and delicious!”  You’re not obligated to tell them it clocks in at 375 calories per mouthful.

Must be time for dinner.

The holiday table was pretty before we demolished it looking for the sauerkraut and cream cheese mashed potatoes and gravy.

A future sauerkraut eater, right here. (June’s Uncle John plies her with some turkey.)

There was a time in the not so distant past when the “rewards” for carrying a sizable balance on my credit card almost justified using it.   I was able to earn all sorts of nifty points and leisure rewards for whipping out the ol’ plastic.  Though I’m sure the round trip to Mexico I eventually earned from racking up 195,000 worth of “leisure rewards”  was paid for many times over thanks to living on credit, so there’s that.

Anyway, I never use credit cards anymore.  I guess I grew up.  I loathe being in debt.  Tricks and trickets don’t beguile me quite the same way anymore (turns out I don’t have anywhere to wear those shearling boots), and there’s nothing I particularly want to buy, except for maybe an industrial sausage maker, but I digress.

The credit card company sent me a catalog of their latest rewards the other day, and geez, how times have changed.

That 195,000 worth of points?  It couldn’t buy me a half-off plate of nachos at Chilis, let alone a plane ticket to Mexico.  Seriously,  the rewards for living on credit these days are akin to receiving a used Slanket or 2-for-the-price-of-1 on toilet paper.   I was actually kind of offended by the bank’s chumpy Dollar General offerings.

So I did something I’ve been meaning to do for awhile now:   I cut up my credit card.  I threw it in the trash.    From now on, I’ll be paying for my Slankets with cash, thanks.

It was really hard being without Jake at his brother’s wedding this weekend, but Jake’s family went out of their way to make sure their son was included.

They had his head blown up and attached to a large popsicle stick.  Here, the Jake centerpiece.

Jake the waiter.

Jake enjoying shrimp scampi.

Jake playing the role of Alek Trebeck at the rehearsal dinner Jeopardy game. (Don’t ask.)

Jake living large inside the stretch limo.

Jake behind the wheel (his favorite place).

Jake and I share an intimate moment at the reception.

Jake pulls me in for a passionate kiss.

Hey, I’ll take what I can get.

Jake’s brother John got married this weekend,  the highlight of my social calendar by far this year.   You can tell it was a swanky event by the invitation.  The engraving is so deep it’s practically a trench.

What to wear, what to wear.

I have an iron clad rule about dressing up when you live in the country — do not dress like you live in the country.  Accordingly, the asexual Dansko black clogs stayed home.

I opted for these babies instead:

With heels this high,  it’s necessary to apply the Rule of Opposites, which holds that either the top or bottom half of an outfit can be sexy, but not both.  I picked up this little nugget of wisdom from all my years in women’s magazines.

For example, a plunging neckline and drapey pants = tastefully sexy.  A plunging neckline and a skintight miniskirt =  the $2 craps table at the Excaliber Casino.

Short shorts with flats and a billowy top = tastefully sexy.  Short shorts with heels and a half shirt =  Senor Frogs.

You see where I’m going.   For my own Rule of Opposites, I opted for an unstructured black shift dress, a counterbalance to the zexiness of the shoe.   Unfortunately, this is the best picture I could come up with….taken inside the ladies room at the Marriott. There’s a joke in there somewhere.

It was nice not to look like a country mouse for one evening.

This license plate.