Good Night

This is going to be one of these really literary, earth-shattering sort of blog entries.

Had a good evening yesterday. Ryan was done with his finals for the semester, and I’d had a pretty good day at work, so we decided to go out to celebrate. We tossed the decision-making process back and forth until we finally decided to go eat at the Japanese steak house near the house. Ryan had been wanting to go for a while – he’d never been, and I’ve only been once – and so we went. It was a ton of fun – not quite as much of a show as I’d had my first time, but still awesome. The food was fantastic, too. We had an entire table to ourselves, which may very well be why we didn’t get quite as much of a show. I almost, but not quite, caught a shrimp in my mouth.

While eating, Ryan and I talked about some of our big ideas. He has a great idea for a research project that I’d absolutely love to collaborate on with him, and I have a potentially terrible idea for a website. ๐Ÿ™‚ It was really nice.

Then we went home and, at long last, decorated our Christmas tree. This has been a rough year for me and Christmas trees. First there was the Festival tree, which was a lot of stress and work. Then, you’ll recall, I nearly died a gruesome death cutting down our own tree. While putting up the office tree, I somehow got roped into setting up lunch room trees in the paint shop, warehouse, fab shop, finish shop, annex, SW&B shop, and the smoking and non-smoking lunch rooms in the loco shop. That’s, count them, ten Christmas trees decorated before I even got lights on my own tree. (I can’t complain. It was a great way to earn my paycheck – got to see a lot of people.)

Anyway, I wanted my tree at home to be the total antithesis of all of these other “decorative objects.” I wanted ours to be a Real Tree. We turned on Trans-Siberian Orchestra and Rockapella Christmas CDs, and decked the tree out with red and green Christmas lights (the decorators in the corner gasp in horror) with white pearl lights strung throughout, and then we filled every conceivable branch, twig, and dangling string of lights with the ornaments we’ve collected from a million different places. Souvenirs from trips… gifts from friends… inheritances from grandparents… leftovers from early childhood… great finds from after-Christmas sales… nothing matching, nothing themed, nothing planned, nothing without a story.

Pictures:

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The real bird nest we found while cutting our tree, with a little blue-and-orange bird for good luck.

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Some of Ryan’s ornaments from when he was little – the entire crew is there in the tree.

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Beautiful angel ornaments from Stixen – and Big Bird, of course. See, Jessica, I told you she didn’t get broken!

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One of the best kinds of ornaments to have. ๐Ÿ™‚

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Paisley’s wondering if she’s supposed to sit under it, or s_it under it. So far she’s mostly enjoyed the latter, which has been less than totally pleasant.

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We don’t have curtains or blinds in that window right now, and the people across the street were moving in, so between the tree and me in a flesh-colored camisole we were probably giving them a good show.

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She was being very uncooperative with the camera last night – never did get a good picture of her with the tree.

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Here’s a bad family picture with the tree. d’Artagnan is hiding behind a branch, and Paisley is squirming in an attempt to slurp d’Art. Oh well. ๐Ÿ™‚

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There’s a big white star on the top, too, but we hadn’t hung it yet when we took this picture.

Forgot to add the rest of the evening. After we finished the tree, we went and watched The Office. Then, this morning, I set up a new email address (from.the.cia@gmail.com) and sent Ryan the following email:

YOU HAVE BEEN COMPROMISED. ABORT MISSION. DESTROY EMAIL ACCOUNT.
 

This is on the heels of an email a few weeks ago, sent from Ryan’s own email address to himself, reading as follows:
 

Ryan,

At 10:00 this morning, someone will poison the Coke. Do not drink any. More details will follow.

Sincerely,
Future Ryan

Just one more reason why you should never give your spouse your email password. ๐Ÿ™‚

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