I wouldn’t imply that I’m a night owl but I do love the early morning hours, say, between 3:00 and 5:00am. The world is so quiet; at rest. Peace on earth. Actually maybe this penchant for early rising makes me that proverbial ‘early bird’ one reads about. The one that gets the worm when coined for career aspirations. Meh.

I have no career aspiration at this age. And what with the recent takeover, ahem, acquisition, of my former business by a behemoth corporation I’m lucky to have retained my position as chief glamstress. (think ‘seamstress’ and see what I did there…)

No, at this age I’m all about hanging on to my insurance and some crumb of mindful work. If my recent staycation was any indicator of the ghost of Christmas future, we are in deep shit. And by ‘we’ I mean the royal we. I enjoyed having no purpose for a couple of days but mid-vacation I was stir crazy; I found myself walking around the apartment with a level to cross check hanging artwork. (I’m that rare individual who levels wonky pictures in hotel rooms.) I cannot rest if something looks off kilter. I suppose I just enjoy the social interaction that my workplace brings; my circle of friends is not much of a circle nowadays. Oh, don’t get me wrong– I have a vast pool of air kiss acquaintances but not so much in the friend category.

I suppose I’m cautious in that regard; it becomes a matter of trust, in my reality. “The dildo box is in the Harrods bag next to my GUCCI shoes…” One just can’t lob that directive to a fake social acquaintance. No ma’am; you do not get the keys to the Lalique cabinet minus the friendship glue that is required. And by ‘required’ I mean I hold and guard some really tragic bit of personal information that could destroy you socially should we ever fall apart. I mean, far be it from me to judge with rolling eyes your attempt at triple penetration with two Mexicans and a tequila bottle in Playa Del Carmen but that news, dearie– will be relished with abject horror when I spill it at my next gala committee meeting. Ooopsie! My bad! Also, now you know why my pet name for you is “Holland Tunnel.” But I digress.

Christmas is fucking here. My original plan was to forgo holiday decorating as a family medical emergency manifest in early November. It was dire; the situation found me embracing my lapsed Catholic religion big time. I prayed; I talked to my deceased father asking for his intervention and if he could speak to God about the earth bound, tragic matter. It was somewhere around YouTubing Mother Angelica’s stations of the cross vid that it dawned on me to celebrate the, ahem, reason for the season: I dragged out my nativity. And then naturally the gay gene kicked in as I dressed it with tiny straw, miniature palms, battery operated ‘seed’ lights to emulate a star-filled sky, and red glass votives as a final nod to holy family sanctuary. It all looks rather Vatican~ish; I am just one life-size statue of Joseph from having the place look like a convent.

The family emergency is better. Far better. Enough to allow my Christmas spirit to flourish further; I hung frosted garland. I carefully ironed that fabric from hell, tissue lame, –the lightweight metallic fabric that will crinkle and melt like a bitch if one’s iron is the tiniest bit too hot, to top off my dining room table. I even sprang for a new slim Christmas tree. On that mark, I score a miss: the decorations are fab but it looks like I decorated a standing missile in my living room and I worry enough about North Korea. It’s a tad too slim for my tastes. This may be a one and done type Christmas tree.

I also think that with the purchase of a standing 3-panel mirrored floor screen/room divider I could create quite the fetch, jewel-box type presentation NEXT holiday season. The illusion being a much fuller Christmas tree. Did I note that its white flocked? It’s a virtual winter wonderland up in here. Like, on a rocket, though. Let’s get through this holiday season first. Today I have low impact plans.

My sole focus today is to score two fabulous glittering evening bags–cocktail clutches, for two gal pal acquaintances. This will be the second and third purchase of bling bling cocktail bags; they’re really the perfect gift for that fashionista friend who is out on the town every night and in the social pages every Sunday morning.  In the spirit of the season, one needs a bit of sparkle. God knows I live for that.