So far our visit has been great. Brandon has enjoyed early morning hunting out of the back window of my dad's house almost every day. Last night we went to a fireball throw with Erick and Corrie, and I actually played a little, rather than cowering far away from the fireballs being hurled through the air. We've gotten to see most of my friends that I'd hoped to see, and pretty much all of my family. Brandon's going fishing this weekend, and then we're heading to Florida to visit some friends.

Well, keep it real. And don't miss us too much. We'll be back soon.

Last year we got the Old Navy Christmas album. It was pretty good. It had Ella Fitzgerald and a few other people I'd heard of, and music that you'd expect to hear in Old Navy. You know, music that makes you want to SPEND because how can you resist the deals? They have fleece, people! FLEECE!

This year we got the Old Navy Christmas album, and I gotta say, it wasn't quite what I was expecting for my $4. The first song on there is "Funky, Funky Christmas" which is amusing if only for the fact that it sounds like the sort of song that they would play on a "Christmas with Shaft" special. The rest is a mix of R&B and music without lyrics. The version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" isn't too shabby. The rest is questionable. Well, keep it real. And have a very funky Christmas.

Inspired by Jeff, I decided to take a look at what I wrote on my site a year ago. Since I didn't blog on the 19th, I thought I'd post what I blogged the 18th. It pretty much sums up what's going on in my life right now:

I'm so happy the semester is over, because today is totally a day that I really don't feel like sitting through class. Yay for holidays!

Now we just have to get serious about preparing for Christmas and our trip to Alabama. Buy presents, pack--all of that fun stuff. I was actually just toying with the whole giving up on decorating our place thing before, but now I'm pretty sure it's a reality. The thing is, having a Christmas tree in the house constantly reminds you that Christmas is drawing near. It also makes it obvious that you haven't bought a single gift, because there is nothing beneath it. You have this impulse to clutter the bottom of the tree with gifts. No tree, no impulse, no reminder... Panic at the last minute. Maybe that was the way it was last year as well... Oh, well. Since I can't remember, I'll assume it wasn't.

Brandon and I began talking around October of 2001. I remember when he got his grades in December, he was a little disappointed. He called me on my cell phone and happened to mention it:

Brandon: So I got my grades for the semester.

Wendy: Yeah? How'd you do?

Brandon: Um, not as well as I wanted to. I think talking to you all the time may have had something to do with it.

Wendy: Nah, that can't be right. What did you get?

Brandon: Well, A's, and a D.

Wendy: Omigosh, I'm so sorry! Yeah, we definitely need to be careful about talking too much. Is it going to really affect your GPA?

Brandon: Huh?

Wendy: You said you got a D.

Brandon: No, a B.

Wendy: Well what are you whining about? Crazy person.

That was around the time I realized just how serious Brandon was about school. I've developed a similar attitude now that I pay for my classes and work at the same time. I guess that responsibility stuff really does change things.

Please tell me this is satire.

Why do I always, always cut myself when I'm chopping meat or veggies? It never fails. And every time I chop veggies I think of the times back in elementary school when I would help my aunt prepare dinner. She was trying to make sure I became a woman worthy of marriage, meaning that I would have good manners and be able to cook for my man and a passel of brats. And so I can clearly remember skinning potatoes, and hearing her say "always cut away from your fingers." And I thought how difficult it was to do so, and how much easier it was just to slice however I wanted. For that matter, it was also easier to watch tv with my dad and uncle instead of helping in the kitchen. But such is the curse of being a girl in the South. You're expected to help prepare the meal and clean it up. And want to do it too, dadgumit. The men watch tv or shoot at small animals before dinner, and then afterward they'd poke out their bellies, pick their teeth with toothpicks, and perhaps belch.

So perhaps I always cut myself when chopping veggies because I resent the expectations of a woman in the South. Or maybe I'm just lazy. Yeah, that's probably it.

Brandon and I were driving back from lunch today, when I saw something sort of amusing. There were these two motorcycle policemen driving next to one another behind us, and a blond lady in an SUV decided to join them in their lane. She was immediately pulled over.

I know, it's bad to be amused by others' misfortune. But really, I was glad we weren't the ones getting pulled over. Plus, it'll learn her to get into another lane without checking.

So, I heard that "Tookie" Williams refused his last meal. A pity, really, because it's a great time to stuff yourself sick without having to worry about losing your girlish figure.

Dead Man Eating is a site that lists last meals of people who have been executed. My favorite is Charles Daniel Thacker's:

• Two double cheeseburgers
• French fries with ketchup
• Onion rings
• Fajitas
• Two Mountain Dews
• Two Coca-Colas
• Two Dr. Peppers
• Guacamole dip with tortilla chips
• Four slices of pepperoni pizza
• One chocolate chip
• Two slices of double chocolate cake
• Two pints of ice cream.

My hairstylist begins her Christmas shopping in September. I can't even begin to fathom what it would feel like to be that well-prepared. I always put off Christmas shopping until December, which coincidentally is the busiest point in the semester, and then when it's all over I have much Christmas shopping to be done and it's a week to Christmas.

We really do need to mail out Christmas cards as well. Many of the people we'll be sending cards to are up in arms over the whole "happy holidays" NO "merry Christmas" YES thing. Last year our card had a picture of a boy with his tongue stuck to an icy pole, with the words "Hathy Holidayth" written inside. This year I'm afraid my Baptist friends/family will disown me for such neglect of all I believe, displayed in that one statement (even when masked with a lisp). Oh, well. We'll just buy whatever card seems right. I saw a card I liked in Borders in late November. It had this really angry looking cat dressed in holiday attire. And really, is anything funnier than angry looking cats? I didn't think so.

You know you're on the computer too much when you're reading a book, and you have the urge to press Ctrl F.

Brandon will only go to two Chinese restaurants: Lakeside Chinese and PF Chang's. He considers anything else "ghetto Chinese" and refuses to eat it. This includes some of my favorite Chinese places in Alabama. I, on the other hand, will eat at just about any Chinese restaurant. However, I generally do regret it after the first few bites.

Take the other day for example. I went to this Chinese food place at the food court near our work, and got sweet and sour chicken, orange chicken, and fried rice. The first few bites were great. But then I noticed that the orange chicken was less of a chicken color and more of a beef color. That disqualified it for eatability. And then the sweet and sour chicken seemed to have a more rubbery consistency than I'm aware that chicken should have. So I stopped eating that as well. But the fried rice was fine until the end. Thank you, fried rice. I can depend on you.

Although I know that I'll regret buying Chinese food most of the time, I still do. I can't resist. And perhaps it's good, because I end up eating less. Yay for ghetto Chinese.

I admit, it was only a week ago that I recoiled at those who sniffle. I gazed on the snotty-nosed children with fear and slight loathing as they pawed at the items I was purchasing at Walmart. They were trying to get me sick, and making it appear as though they were just investigating my facewash and bottled water. They were trying to share their germs. I washed my hands religiously and sang the Happy Birthday Song in my head to make sure I was washing them long enough. I made sure to avoid touching my nose, mouth, and eyes. But my husband got sick, and I accidentally took a swig of his water bottle. Now I am one of them.

And now that I'm on the other side, it's kind of fun. Other than the sniffling, coughing and a complete inability to focus, that is. But I see the way people react to my coughs. I see the way people around me shudder when I have to blow my nose amidst the complete silence of exam time. I know that I have the power through my germs to make the end of the semester exponientially harder for them, just as it is for me. But of course, I won't do that. I'm far too nice. But if they take a swig of my water bottle, they're fair game.

At Borders today, I picked up this book, Questions for my Father. The very first question I flipped to was, "If I'm in love with two women, which one should I marry?"

I'm thinking this calls for a change to the title. Either Questions from a Son to His Father or perhaps, Questions for a Father with a Bad Heart Condition and a Good Life Insurance Policy.

Christmas. It's great, isn't it? You get stuff, you give stuff. And many fond memories are tied to the season. Here are a few of mine:

• When I was baby Jesus in our church play.
Okay, I don't remember it, but I heard about it, and I saw pictures. Basically, I was 2 months old, and a little shepherd boy decided it would be cool to use his staff to take out my eyes. My mom rescued me like a good (and angry) mom should, and the shepherd followed after her, what with his eyeball removing job unfinished. And my dad got pictures of it all.

• When my mom planted the Christmas tree in the front yard.
Since it wouldn't stand up, she tied it to the lawnmower and another tree. Surprisingly, the tree turned brown and did not sprout roots from its severed trunk. Don't worry, quite a few people saw it before that point. We still laugh about that.

• The way Sutty (my recently deceased kitty) used to eat the tinsel off the Christmas tree. He'd have about 2 inches of tinsel hanging out of his mouth, which we'd pull out, only to find much more. Yummy.

• The way Santa would assemble some of my toys incorrectly.
What with my parents having to sneak out the toys in the wee hours of the morning (and assemble the larger ones), it wasn't uncommon for there to be a few mistakes. So when I'd say, "Dad, my toy cradle won't rock" he'd reply "I guess Santa's elves didn't do a very good job. Let's see if I can fix it." Lazy elves.

I read the discussion under Sarah's post at DYL, in which she asked the female readers if their fathers were protective when it came to dating. In my case, my father was never all that protective when it came to who I dated when I was a teenager.

However, I'm sure he was a tad intimidating to any boyfriend (or guy friend) that came around, simply because he was a sniper in Vietnam, owns countless firearms, and is a staunch supporter of the NRA. It's probably scary enough to meet your girlfriend's father without the knowledge that he's actually killed people before. However, Brandon gets along great with him, and he's taught Brandon to shoot pretty well. I remember my dad's relief upon meeting Brandon, since he has this misconception that all males in California are effeminate and only enjoy surfing. I believe one of the first things he said to Brandon was, "Oh thank God, you're normal!" Reassuring, no?