An Old-Fashioned Christmas

That's the stuff - muddle my cherry.

During the holiday season, I want to be alone.  Me and the music, the lights, the pile of bags and packages at my feet, a sandwich on my plate, and a beautiful, perfect drink.  An old-fashioned.  The fourteen of us, crowded around, under, and on the table.

My beloved family is out of sight but not out of mind.  They give me plenty of days to myself; that is not the issue.  Sometime in the next few weeks, I'll be there in NoHo, SoHo, Chelsea or Hellsea in some fabulous restaurant with a $15 drink and a sandwich on the way.  Because that is my Christmas tradition.

Papi Muff and Baby Muff will probably join me.  It's our annual Christmas shopping day, and the feigned secrecy and even faker surprise dictates that we'll split up while we shop for each other.  Trinkets, usually, stocking stuffers (think deodorant and nuts) and socks; and at some point we'll meet up at some cozy spot.  Juan will be late. My old fashioned won't.

Practically nothing in my life tops this moment.  The eager anticipation of Christmas, the egg-sausage thing we make the night before for brunch, the look on Benji's face when he realizes this year, for the first time, that the wrapping paper isn't the point.  Here I am at a table, a caramel-cherry-orange glass reflecting a candle and a crowded restaurant of lovelies and swells.

Christmas is coming - raise your glass!