It's Christmas Eve. For those who do not celebrate Christmas (which is absolutely acceptable in my world), it's merely another date on the calendar . . . December 24th.
We're hosting a luncheon today, and some of the invitees don't celebrate Christmas. So instead of a Christmas Eve luncheon we'll call it our December 24 luncheon. I'm thinking of making it an annual tradition -- like our Bastille Day Party (no need to be French to enjoy). After all, a successful party rarely depends on the date/holiday, nor is it about the food and drink. The measure of a gathering's or a union's success is always about the people (sometimes people and pets). Today we're blessed to be entertaining very dear friends.
I often joke about the quantity of alcohol that I consume. As with any party, my cocktail consumption is never about the quantity . . . it's always about the quality. True, from 23 through 25 December, I do begin drinking in the mornings. . . after all, 'tis the season and Irish Coffee is de rigueur. And I happen to have a full bottle of Jameson from that trip north to Coco. When the caffeine outweighs the effect of the Irish whiskey and the Amarula, I'll switch to Greyhounds. Again . . . that trip north -- we have fresh grapefruit, which is perhaps my best Christmas gift this year . . . except for one. My husband.
So today's post is my early Christmas gift to Rusty. We're here on the terrace, drinking our Irish coffee, listening to Christmas tunes . . . and I realize, yet again, how lucky I am to have such a man. Though this past year brought out the worst and the best in both of us (recall those tense packing moments way back in April and May), we are so much on the same page that we can read each other's thoughts. Well, Rusty can read mine -- the tiny gears in my head never cease to turn. And I declare, Rusty can glance at me and see that I'm about to spiral into obsession about Jill The Pill, about the fungus on the shrubberies, about our wacky neighborhood, or about something else silly that probably isn't worthy of my time.
Rusty's brain isn't all that complicated. As Rusty quotes, Sometimes I sit and think; other times I just sit. Il était une fois I believed that Rusty withheld in his head some type of great thoughts or emotions. Then I realized, nope, it's pretty much flat-line in there. Or is it?
My husband. The man who is bringing me little Christmas gifts this Christmas Eve morning after sneaking somewhere into our Costa Rica home . . . the home of which I proclaim to know every inch. So where is this stuff coming from? The man who will make a Christmas playlist for our luncheon. The man who will, with no prompting, connect the television to his computer so that I can watch flashmob holiday events around the world (a little tradition in our world). The man who hung on his new garage/playroom the frog and toucan that I painted (and hanging anything on our concrete walls is no easy task). And the man who loves me despite my extra 17 pounds. Hallelujah.
I adore you, my pet. We're in it for better or worse . . and yes, even for lunch. Lo que hay.