I was forever getting to sleep last night. It was sometime after five a.m. About seven, I awoke to rain and stood in the front parlor a while, looking out at the dark, wet street. I awoke again just before ten, and Spooky said that it was snowing, and it was. Pretty heavy for about an hour or so, but now the sun is out. Still, that counts as a white Christmas. Currently, it's 33˚F, with the windchill at 24˚F. We have a wind advisory until sometime this evening.

I made a huge breakfast of eggs and bacon and biscuits this morning.

Last night, after the spaghetti dinner (HUGE meatballs), we had our annual viewing of Terry Zwigoff's Bad(der) Santa (2003), a tradition we've kept almost every Christmas Eve since 2007. Oh, and we watched A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965), which is only one year younger than me. And we saw the season finale of Peaky Blinders, which was brilliant and beautifully filmed. I never thought I'd see a day when such beautiful cinematography would be lavished on mere television.

Yesterday, when we went out to the market, we were greeted by the sight of the "This Tree is for Everybody" Christmas tree at the corner of Wickenden and Governor streets, by the statue of George M. Cohen. It was a welcome sight last year, and it was again this year, and we pulled over and took a photo.

Last night, I saw someone describe Agents of Dreamland as "Lovecraft staple-gunned to Cronenberg," which is a pretty good Christmas present. Almost as good as whoever said it has "the delightfully weird transcendental feeling of David Lynch."

I think Spooky's feeling a little better today. And I need to wash the breakfast dishes.

Happy Holidays,
Aunt Beast




12:24 p.m.