Merry Christmas


She pointed out the obvious. But I suppose it was so obvious I never noticed. While in my kitchen, Bri rummaged through cabinets and then said, You have a nice crockpot. I wanted to rush over from the living room and interject in the conversation she was having with JD and be all, Yeah, I know…my crockpot is awesome…look at that fancy digital timer…and the illuminated screen! But I didn’t. Because I’d then have to admit I’ve used it once this past year. Once.

Last night–while Christmas music played and rich aromas filled the air–Bri served dinner. FROM MY CROCKPOT. If I wasn’t feeling so pa-rum-pa-pa-pum at that moment and filled with holiday cheer, I might have been jealous. Nat King Cole serenaded us as we sopped up the flavors with warm french bread and I felt like I was in a Norman Rockwell painting. The long, lost ethnic one.

It felt like Christmas. And I want to make sure I’m enjoying every minute. In light of this, I want to thank YOU. You, who comes to this blog and shares your life, time, space with me. With all my heart, I’m enriched because of your stories and your friendship. You make me feel like I’m perpetually walking in a Norman Rockwell painting. The long, lost cyber one.

Merry Christmas.