It's Christmas Eve and it's OK

 

Our "Christmas Tree" with the star at the top

It was Christmas Eve, babe(**)...

I should write something profound.

After all, we've made it, haven't we?

It's Christmas tomorrow, and there's another week left to this sorry state known as 2020. Though, as said before, that won't magically change when the calendar does. That's just not how it works.

Wait! This is Christmas Eve. No need to be a Grinch/Scrooge or whatever else Chris Erway insists on calling me*.

*I get called that in part because I don't fawn over Mariah Carey's annual caterwauling of that song. I was talking with a friend (let's call her "Newsan") who agrees with me that, just because you have a voice, doesn't mean you always have to move heaven and earth with each line that is performed. Mariah does this. Celine does this. Hell, even Aretha did it. Streisand -- Babs -- never needed to go to that other octave in every...single...song.

OK, a wild digression there, which will no doubt bring further wrath that I'm somehow sitting on a porch, telling people to get off my lawn. I'm not, nor do I feel that way.

So, in truth, I have nothing profound to say about Christmas Eve. The calendar says that it is, indeed, Dec 24. TBS or TNT or whatever will play A Christmas Story for 24 glorious hours beginning at 8 p.m. and I'm here for that, despite whatever slander a Mr. Michael Hirn of Ohio wishes to heap upon Ralphie, Randy, and the denizens of Cleveland Street.

You may prefer something else (I shall offer no hatred or judgment). I'll take the "...soft glow of electric sex gleaming in the window," as well as, "My father worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium; a master."

This will also be the Third Annual Adams Boys Christmas Eve Movie Spectacular (patent-pending, trademarked). While we've enjoyed Avengers: Infinity War, Caddyshack, and Psycho over the previous years, we have yet to commit to our 2020 film(s).

I'm leaning towards a good comedy because we need to do some serious laughing. We'll be deciding shortly.

We also have to decide on a meal. I was pondering doing The Feast of the Seven Chili Dogs. But, just maybe not seven. I failed in the goal of coming up with good appetizers (while they're passable, a good frozen mozzarella stick is NOT easy to find). 

But, again, we have an answer. An angel sent us a big package of goodies from a place called Omaha, having nothing to do with Peyton Manning. So now we might be cranking out a couple of big ol' steaks and fries.

The message on the box didn't give a name, but Newsan works in mysterious ways and doesn't like seeing anyone hungry.

Meat and potaters! The perfect night for a couple of grunts like us.

We know it's different, more than ever this year. The house is different. This is the first Christmas without my mother. But I also know there are many others who are suffering. There's a feeling that we're in this together. Well, at least those being slightly responsible.

I do have an invitation tomorrow and am planning to go to a small gathering at my nephew's house, knowing that they're smart and cautious about all of this. I want to believe the finish line is getting closer, so let's not eff this thing up at this point, right?

But I also know there are people concerned that I'd be completely alone on Christmas after Sean leaves tomorrow morning. To be sure, the circumstances are so different than when I did the same thing in 2014. I truly understood.

So we're OK. It doesn't feel like Christmas Eve. It's a Thursday. Just like Thanksgiving was.

Still, to you and yours, Merry Christmas (a few hours early). Be good to each other, and know that you're loved and not alone.

(**) Don't click that link if easily offended. It leads to the marvelous "Fairytale of New York City" by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl, however, I feel compelled to mention that BBC Radio 1 will play an edited version because of some slang that is used in the song. Just in case you need another reminder of 2020. Happy Christmas!