So Close, So Very Close, And Yet...

You already know that I drove a long way to a funeral this week. What I've only alluded to is how frightfully banshee-mean Aunt Rena was during the memorial activities. It was demoralizing in ways I cannot yet express.

I got back, I got through a couple of days of work, I kept up with my responsibilities. Never quite got my head on straight but I was wandering in the right direction anyway. Christmas prep feels like a greased goldfish whose life I'm failing to save but I'm plugging along and figuring I'll be forgiven if it doesn't all come out even.

I fought to keep this evening free to go caroling. I got home from my day of things away from the internet to find a flaming bag of electronic poo on my digital doorstep that required extinguishing and disposing of and then disinfecting, which Jesus I did not want and I can't be any more specific but Dear Santa please send NO DRAMA UNTIL JANUARY 10th! No need to wrap. I got the extinguishing and the disposing done and then went caroling.

Caroling was delightful and just what I needed. If you don't have the back story, the experience of Christmas is to me like being repeatedly kicked in the 'nads while onstage at the Miss America pageant. (That is an exaggeration but I like the visual.) I have trouble with it and I find that if I participate in some sort of singing event during the "festive" season I am just generally better able to keep from sitting down in a snowbank and crying myself to sleep. (See Above re: Aunt Rena and boy howdy, I might need to attend a singing event every day between now and the time I see her in order to keep myself out of jail.) I used to go to D. Jay's Christmas Show but then he died so no fucking Christmas show anymore, he only appears on my iPod now. So I went caroling and it was all it was supposed to be and for that I am truly grateful.

It was also a learning experience, in that one of the long time organizers seemed to be having a tough time and needed to tell his story in depth. His story is one of having a beautiful and unbelievably talented daughter who loved to ski. While skiing near her college she ran into a sapling, was in a twilight coma sort of a situation and died a year later before they could even get her home. He has dedicated himself in a variety of ways to preserving her memory and doing good in the world in her honor. He needed to talk about it and, while sometimes it was a little uncomfortable, I was actually honored to hear it all.

Got home from that, did the disinfecting, tried to catch up on the less dramatic parts of the internet and, while checking my Flickr contacts, came across this sweet-as-the-10,000-cookies-I-ate-while-caroling photo of Sueb0b's dog, Goldie.

That was, apparently, the proverbial straw. You guys, I miss the hell out of my dog. I don't want to have to think about when or how or what kind of new dog to get. I don't want to save money on dog food and vet care. I don't want to be able to go anywhere after work and not pay for a dogwalker. Just bring my fucking dog back. Leave her out front, do a ring and run and nobody will get hurt. OK? No charges pressed, no hard feelings as long as she's back in one healthy piece before I have to get up and go to the godforsaken post office in the snow tomorrow.

Is that really too much to ask?