I was driving to my first Christmas decorating job, today, and passed workers putting up the big Christmas tree out in front of our city hall. The weather has finally turned cool down here in Mississippi. The leaves were sporting their fall colors and the cool breeze sent them swirling down on my car. I passed a large group of boys playing football out in a front yard- enjoying their break from school. Several store windows were showcasing those twinkling Christmas adornments that announce the coming of the giving season. It's just that warm and wonderful time of year. Our church seemed extra full, Sunday morning....everyone wanting to worship, this Thanksgiving season, and family coming home for the holiday. Our pastor, of course, preached on thankfulness and he made a statement that we've all heard before and one that I'd agree with, wholeheartedly. He commented that some of the most grateful people are those who have very little and it made me think of a story that I thought was relevant to that point.

My parents told me, many times, about one Christmas, before I was born, when my older brother and two of his cousins, about the same age, spent Christmas Eve night together in the same house. Of course, where there are little boys on Christmas Eve, there Santa will land and unload goodies from his sleigh.

So, between the boys, there were three different sets of parents represented, that night, and also three different ideas of how much a child should receive in the way of Christmas gifts. They'd all done their shopping and, when the young boys went to bed, sure enough, Santa paid them a visit, leaving three separate piles of presents. Three separate piles of widely varying sizes, at that.

I suppose they were really young and, the next morning, they didn't really notice the disparity in the gift amounts that they'd received, but one thing surely stood out to the adults. The child, who received the biggest pile of gifts, seemed to be the least impressed with what was in all the packages. There were so many that he'd grab one, rip it open, and toss it aside, even before all the paper was off, so he could get his hands on the next one. With so much laid there at his feet, there was little time to stop and appreciate what had been given to him. The abundance had caused him to become less sensitive to the joy of his gifts, while the other two, with their less impressive accumulations, seemed more amazed by each thing they'd been given. They spent more time studying them, appreciating them, and relishing the whole experience of receiving.

We've all seen that. We've been to children's birthday parties, where the kid is covered up with more presents than she could possibly ever play with or even open for that matter. And they seem to be unimpressed with all of it. The gifts that the parents had thought about for so long. The ones the grandparents had special ordered for the occasion. The ones that were super expensive with all the bright lights, realistic sounds, and rechargeable batteries. Sitting there mostly unnoticed, while their boxes appear to be more attention grabbing. Somewhere in the sizable mound of gifts, the appreciation just got lost. The wonder and awe somehow was thrown out with the mountain of tissue, ribbons, and boxes.

This is that special time when we all gather with our families and friends and remember our many blessings and give thanks to our Creator for what He's given to us. Sometimes, I feel like that little kid, at her birthday party, who's buried beneath a mountain of gifts, and I can't even really fully appreciate any of them like I should. Sometimes, maybe I start to have the mentality that there's more where those came from and I'm guilty of not living in an attitude of thanksgiving, but more of an attitude of expectancy that I'll always have what I need and a lot of what I want. Most of us probably have "piles" bigger than we deserve. Definitely bigger than much of the world could ever even imagine having.

I'm a big House Hunters fan, but I think our overindulged society comes out loud and clear on that show, sometimes, when a couple walks into a beautiful kitchen and talks about how the whole thing would need to be gutted, because the granite is the wrong color and there isn't a farmhouse sink or double ovens. And they'd never even want to attempt to cook on an electric range, heaven forbid. "I just couldn't live here long with the kitchen like this." When there are people living in abject poverty, it makes me blush to listen to our coddled mindset being expressed audibly. Maybe because I know that I have a lot of the same kinds of thought patterns about certain things.

We are blessed, indeed. Not that most of us are millionaires or live in mansions with a slew of domestic helpers, but I think we all can recognize our plentitude. And I'm not saying it's impossible for us to stay aware of our blessings and be continuously grateful for them, but I do think that it takes more of a focused effort to remain in a spirit of thanksgiving when we live among such abundance. And maybe the best way to live in thankfulness is to use our gifts to glorify the Giver and to the benefit of others. Then, we can use our plenty in a way that really expresses our gratitude. "....Whoever has been given much will be responsible for much. Much more will be expected from the one who has been given more." Luke 12:48

I hope that you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your family and friends. We've already had one Thanksgiving meal and we'll have another big one on Thanksgiving night and watch the Mississippi State/ Ole Miss game for dessert. It'll be a night full of love and family and more calories than should be allowed by law. I hope that, wherever and however you celebrate God's goodness, it will be a lovely one.

      

Recently, I got out my calendar and initiated talks with Blair and John Samuel about this year's Thanksgiving and Christmas schedules. With each new marriage in a family, the holiday season becomes a more difficult puzzle to solve. The Rubik's cube could be solved blindfolded with greater ease. To a marriage, we each bring our life experiences, our raising, our beliefs and values, our dispositions, our idiosyncrasies, and all of our longstanding family tradition schedules for the holidays, which are only slightly more flexible than concrete. The likelihood of one spouse's holiday schedule fitting perfectly with the other's is almost a statistical impossibility and, therefore, a great deal of thought and coordination must be implemented ahead of time.

Now, I'd say that my son-in-law's family's schedule fits pretty nicely with ours during the holiday season, but extended family events are where it can get messy. Just in my mother's family alone, there are about 40 of us, who celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas together and, from that group, there are about 12 sets of in-laws, who must be worked around in order for us to all gather. It's like herding attention deficient cats. Things will be looking promising for everyone to get together on, say, Christmas Eve, and then....wait a minute, you lose two or three or four. "Well, that's when so and so's grandmother does their Christmas or it's so and so's year to be out of town on Christmas Eve." And back to square one, you go. Before it's all over, sometimes, you have to get pretty far out from the actual holiday to find a suitable time for everyone....How does April 26 sound for everybody?

So, this year, I was trying to get an early reading on the whens and wheres of the approaching holidays. I'm kind of a planner and like to have things sorted out in my brain. When Blair and John Samuel married, they decided to do a rotating schedule for where they'd be on Christmas morning. This year is "our year" to have them then and his parents will have them on Christmas Eve. That works out easy enough, but then there are multiple grandparents' homes and other family events that must be squeezed into that time period and that's where the whole deal gets tricky, I mean, if you want to slow down the car and actually get out at each stop.

And southern grandmothers can get offended if you show up at their house and you're not hungry. I mean, if you had a huge Christmas breakfast at one house and then a big Christmas lunch at another, the grandmother of Christmas dinner, whoever she may be that year, will not take too kindly to you coming to her table without a ravenous appetite. I mean, she went to Winn-Dixie way back in October just so she'd be sure to get the French's french fried onions, a case of Borden's sweetened condensed milk, the Campbell's cream of mushroom, and the Honey Maid graham crackers for the crusts. You have to shop early to ensure you get the good brands before they're snatched up in the holiday frenzy, you know. She got up at 4 a.m. and baked that hen just for the broth to go in the dressing, because Swanson's would never do and she had to wrestle that turkey into her cart that weighed as much as she does and you're telling her you're not hungry? And don't get her started on the bushel of pecans she shelled. You know, we've talked about the food love language that is spoken fluently down here in these parts. We don't like it when people are too full to receive our love language.....and seconds and thirds of it.

And then there are other obstacles like when couples have their first child and they start wanting to be at their own homes on Christmas morning to begin their own Santa traditions and, well, there goes another set of wrenches in the plans, especially if they live out of town. And then, there are those things called jobs. When Christmas falls in the middle of the week, out of towners can have a hard time getting home for more than a day or two. Try splitting that up into 8 equal parts in a way which is satisfying to everyone. You might as well try splitting an atom at your kitchen table with the carving knife.
So, yeah, Hallmark Christmas movies are on and Little Debbie is making her Christmas Tree Cakes, which makes it time to get out those calendars and put the pencil to the paper. We all need to nail down some dates and times, people. Grandmas and Mamas, everywhere, are sitting on pins and needles, wondering how big the Butterball needs to be, this year. There are favorite dishes to prepare and food allergies to consider. There are placemats to count. Kid tables to set up. Extra chairs to bring in. Gifts to equalize.

And they're waiting on us.

So, y'all have a good weekend and don't forget to call your Mamaw, Gran, Nana, Granny, Grandma, Big Mama, Mimi, Grams, Nanny, Grandmama, Grammy, Grandmother, or MawMaw. Hopefully, y'all can work something out.



       



 

In all of the activity of the last week, I didn't share the exciting news that my Michelle is a first time grandmother. Last Tuesday, I was able to see my precious, oldest friend and her husband, Paul, look at their child's child with wonder and pure joy. Their most treasured titles now are Big Poppy and Sis.

Michelle and I lost our dads, four months apart, and, without the other knowing, we each had decided to use what our daddies called us as our grandmother names. When she told me she was going to be Sis, I told her I was hoping to be a Punkin, one day. We both had the same idea to take a little piece of our daddies with us to love on the next generation that they'd never meet. Here on earth, at least.


Michelle's son and daughter-in-law live here in town and I was getting text updates from the expectant grandmother throughout the looooong labor. Finally, I got word that he'd been born on Tuesday night and I headed up to the hospital, the next day, to see the sweet bundle of joy. They were just down the hall from where the rooster and I had "given birth" just a few weeks earlier. I told the proud, new dad that it seemed like just yesterday when Michelle was calling me at work from Orlando to tell me that he'd been born. I knew when I said it that it sounded like one of those things that your grandmother used to say, but, apparently, I'm getting into that age bracket now, so it's all good, I guess. Time's pace has really picked up as of late.

They say grandkids are the best thing ever. I've been told this time and time again by my friends, who've crossed over into the land of grandparenthood and I've tried to imagine what it would be like to hold my child's child, but, because I haven't experienced it, I just can't fully grasp all of its glorious splendor. There are some places so wonderful that imagination just can't take you there. Paul shared a picture with me of Michelle wiping tears as she held their grandson for the first time. After all of those years of being like me....trying to imagine what it would be like....she'd finally experienced the magnitude of a grandmother's love and it was obviously more than her heart could hold.

My Daddy described it as watching someone you love more than anything holding someone they love more than anything. The love just multiplies. From that description, I always kind of looked at it like layers of love. The love gets richer and more wonderful as its depth grows.

Here in the South, we know about the importance of layers. And the more layers, the better. We love our chocolate trifles. A good banana pudding. Our homemade lasagna. Our mile high wedding cakes. We love to sink into a bed covered in layers of blankets and quilts on a cold night. We, southern women, recognize how vital a good, layered haircut is. We enjoy layering our shirts, sweaters, vests, scarves, and jackets in the winter months. We know that one layer of anything is ok, but if you keep piling it on, well, it just gets better and better. Love is like that, too, I suppose.  

But, from our chairs situated in front of our televisions, sometimes, it can seem that the world is hopelessly tiered with hate. We might even feel like any measure of love that we could possibly dispense, no matter how great, would just be cancelled out.....all of its good collapsing under the weight of the hatred that can seem almost palpable. We might start to think that love is just outpaced and understaffed, sometimes.
Whether it's a family layering generation upon generation. Teachers teaching kids who grow to be teachers who teach kids. Someone who is told the gospel who goes and tells someone else of the hope of Jesus. A mentor for someone needing a positive influence in her life, who turns to mentor someone else in return. There are a million ways in which love is layered. Countless ways it grows deeper and becomes firmly established.

God sees that the batons of love and salvation continue to be passed along down the line. I think that's why He hasn't given up on this world yet. The generations to come are depending on us to keep it moving. And He's counting on us to keep layering up.


Congratulations to Sis and Big Poppy!

  

Davis and I finally broke down, this year, and joined a tailgate group. We had tickets to several of the Mississippi State games and, before the season started, we bought some new chairs, a rolling ice chest, some serving pieces.....all the things you need to be a legit tailgater. We'd been invited to join groups before and never had, but we decided this was our year.

Well, the season rolled around and we missed the first game due to traveling and then the next couple of home games due to an unplanned hysterectomy. And that took us all the way to game 8, which was the day after Sugar had passed away on Friday evening. Davis and I had just cried ourselves to dehydration, Friday night, and I knew if we stayed home on Saturday, we'd do nothing but lose more fluids. So, we decided we'd go and get our minds off of sad things and I sent him to the grocery store with a list.

Even though they had a rare weekend to stay home with no obligations, Blair and John Samuel drove in unexpectedly on Friday night to be with us. Bless their sweet hearts. All of Sugar's people being together was good. When your heart is feeling the same pain as the other people in the room, well, it finds a strange comfort there. Blair prepared my tailgate dishes and they helped us get some things done as we'd been preoccupied for a couple of days. I really don't think I could've done it without them. Blair knows her Mama well enough to know that I was going to be in rough shape and that she could help. She took charge and what a blessing that was to me. And what a humbling experience it is when your children love you so sacrificially.

So, on Saturday morning, Davis and I woke up from our second terrible night's sleep and had another good crying meltdown. When we woke up to that first day without our old girl, well, the waterworks started all over again at square one. But, with my eyes bloodshot and swollen, my sinuses throbbing, my head pounding, and practically unable to keep on eye makeup for any period of time, I put my sunglasses on and we set out to tailgate. Oh, we were going to be loads of fun to be around. We knew everyone was going to want to hang out with us with our sunny dispositions and snotty noses, but I was certain it would do us both some good to get away.

I was right, too. We both really enjoyed the day. Being with sweet friends in a totally different place, helped get our minds off of our little friend for a while. And the game was so good. Even though we left early, we were really glad we'd decided to go.

On the way home, though, all the sadness we'd shoved in the corner for a while....all the grief that we'd pushed down all day, well, it came rising back up to the surface. The hum of the dark highway seemed to remind us that we were going home for the first time and that Sugar wouldn't be sitting at the door when we got there. We grieved and cried some more in the glow of oncoming headlights.

Sunday morning came around and I sent everyone to church without me. I think the stress of the week and possibly some overexertion had just left me completely exhausted. We had lunch and visited with the kids, but, when Blair and John Samuel drove away, the sadness came back. It bubbled right up to the top again. Grief is like that, you know. I just see Sugar everywhere in our house. And she's not in those places where she should be. For almost 14 years, those little habits and routines of hers had become part of ours and they're gone now and it's so hard to let them go.

Now, I know Sugar was a dog. I know that there are people grieving for people right now and I certainly don't elevate her to that level, but, the heart feels what it feels. There's not much we can do about it when our soul longs and cries out for something it deeply loved. Sometimes, love just feels like love and we just have to let the heart do its thing and acknowledge what it's lost. In whatever way it has to do it. Love and loss have to run its course.

I can't leave without loving on my husband. I blogged, a few weeks ago, about men having their strengths and women having theirs. Well, I'd place pet burial in the man column, every time, and even with his heart broken wide open just like mine, Davis, of course, took care of our girl. He's been taking awfully good care of me, too, and I don't know what I'd do without him.

Thank you for all of your kind words to us.

Hope you have a good week.

                

Sugar Miller, age 13.5, (94 in dog years) passed away peacefully at her residence on Friday, October 26, surrounded by her family and comforted by Dr. Leslie Williams. She died on her bed and blanket, next to her human mother's chair, where she felt most content, comfortable, and safe.

Sugar was born on April 8, 2005 in south Mississippi and, when she became of age, relocated to central Mississippi with her new family. She never attended obedience school or received any type of official papers, but was very smart and had a real command of the English language. Among her favorite words were treat, dinner, outside, bird, cat, squirrel, and lizard.

Sugar is preceded in death by her mother, a dachshund from Columbia, MS, and her father, a chihuahua of unknown address. She is survived by her human father, Davis Miller, who fed her at mealtimes and fixed her nighttime bowl of Cheerios and milk. Because of his important role, he was greeted most warmly upon arriving home. Her human mother, Joni Miller, was her closest companion and the one most likely to feed her from the table. They were longtime nap partners and she was often accused as having deemed Sugar as her favorite child. Her sister, Blair, who enjoyed dressing her up in doll clothes as a child, later, spent many hours snuggling and watching Netflix in bed with Sugar. Sugar lovingly recognized her name as Sissy. Her brother, Carson, was the one for whom Sugar felt a caretaking responsibility. She enjoyed when he shared his Pop Tart corners and bits of Nutri-Grain bar and looked forward to their nighttime visits on the front porch. Her brother-in-law, John Samuel, while he got off on a shaky foot, after suffering a couple of warning bites to the leg, soon became part of her very exclusive circle.

Sugar was employed by Miller Security, where she worked as a guard for the family home. She took her job very seriously. She was seen as a threat to the ankles of any stranger, who came lurking around. She had the least tolerance for small children and parcel carrier employees. Anyone entering her home was viewed as a threat to the four people for whom she acted as body guard. Sugar will always be remembered for her dedication to her work.

Her hobbies included chasing lizards, stalking the neighbor's cat, barking at doorbells...the ones in real life and on TV, chasing the UPS man back to his truck, following the smell of bacon, and going on walks down the street with her people. In her later years, these passions were scaled down to fit her physical limitations. They included walking to the mailbox with her Daddy, barking at the UPS man from the porch, and just growling and lunging toward the cat to let him know she could chase him if she chose to. She could still follow the smell of bacon, however, even up to the very end.

Sugar wasn't one for traveling. She liked to visit her grandfather and enjoy the smells of the wide open country and the thrill of chasing squirrels and, every spring, she took a trip across town to Sonic for her birthday dinner. Any unrecognizable road brought on anxiety as suspicions of a vet visit would arise, so she really just preferred staying at home, where she felt most at ease. Sugar didn't have many friends, but that was her choice. She was often misunderstood by outsiders and so she chose to live as a homebody and spend all of her time with her family.

Some of her favorite recent memories came within the last couple of months when her mother helped her corner a lizard in the garage and she was able to slay him like she'd done so many times before in her younger days. It was a special day recapturing the fires of her youth. She also enjoyed the two recent weeks when she spent 24/7 together with her mother, helping her recover from surgery. It just worked out that it was the time when the elderly Sugar needed her best friend to be close and her best friend needed her loyal companion, too. During that time, Sugar grew even more dependent on her mother's presence and left her post, next to her mother's chair, to keep watch next to her bedside, where she continued to sleep every night for the rest of her time here on earth.

Her last day was spent at the lake eating a cheeseburger and barking at the geese. They were frightened and quickly set out into the water, giving Sugar much satisfaction that she could still terrorize water fowl. She also enjoyed a sweet visit from her most adoring neighbor, Miss Kitzi. Sugar was also warmed by special one on one time on the floor with her brother, Carson, before he left for school and work and with an emotional FaceTime visit with her sister, Blair, who needed to say her goodbyes from far away. She enjoyed a delicious cheese omelet for supper.

Sugar will long be remembered by her family for her ferocious loyalty and her unapologetic protective nature. Her family will never be able to express their appreciation for her years of unwavering devotion to them. No one has ever loved them more passionately or defended them more fiercely or adored them more unconditionally. They will sorely miss her enthusiastic greetings upon walking in the door. No matter how much time passes, they will forever long to see her there in that spot waiting on them. What a lonely feeling that will be for them to come home now. It is important to note that Sugar had been with her family for more than half of Davis and Joni's married life. She was there to help raise their children and sat with them as their nest started to empty. She was there for the first day of preschool, birthday parties, beauty reviews, proms, graduations, and packing for college. For a long time to come, their hearts will have a gaping hole that she once filled, but that is the price they are happy to pay for 13 years of her slobbery, unabashed love.

The family asks that everyone make a donation of a Beggin' Strip and belly rub to their dog in Sugar's memory. And a prayer for her heartbroken humans would be greatly appreciated, too. They really need it.



   

As you may or may not know, Carson is a freshman here at our local community college, this year. He's majoring in business and will transfer to Mississippi State, next fall, but we sure are enjoying having him home for this one last year. I don't write too much about Carson, because, sometimes, he's not all that excited to be my blog subject or, at least, he wasn't when he was younger. While Blair, on the other hand, has always been more than happy to be the topic. But, I got special permission to talk about Carson, today, so we better enjoy this while we can.

Carson, much to his dismay, comes from a line of late bloomers on Davis' side. Not only do they start growing later than most of their peers, but, even when they're all done, they don't really put up very big numbers. My daddy and brothers all measured/measure in at over 6' and Carson has hoped for years that those genes would come through for him, but he also has plenty of genes that could work against him in the height department...not just from Davis' dad's side, but my mother's, too.

Davis' dad joined the Air Force at the age of 18 (Carson's age now) and he was 5'3" and weighted 113 pounds. He grew 5 more inches over the next couple of years. Then, came Davis, who had to sit on a cushion in order to see over the steering wheel to take his driving test and graduated from high school at the same whopping 5'3" as his dad. He also grew 5 more inches in his college years. You're seeing the pattern here.

You know how guys start shooting up around the 9th grade. Well, all of Carson's friends started their growth spurts about then, too. Their legs got long and lanky and their bodies started to stretch out, over those high school years, leaving Carson in the dust. When he was learning to drive, we'd see people doing double takes as they thought they'd spotted an underage driver for sure. We'd think he was making some strides until he'd have friends over and we realized that, for every inch he grew, they'd grown four. Blair was always on the short side, too, but I never realized, until I had a son, how height is on a whole different concern level for boys than it is for girls. The taller his friends got, the more he'd ask us when he was going to grow. We'd measure him and mark it inside his closet, where we kept our unofficial growth chart. We'd make a big deal out of any vertical movement in the pencil marks, but he was never satisfied. There just wasn't enough space between those markings to suit him.

Despite Davis' empathizing pep talks about how he got through the long wait, himself, and even with doctors' assurances that he was just following the family pattern and would eventually grow, it did very little to satisfy him. We'd listen patiently as he'd vent his frustrations for the thousandth time. He'd step up to us, toe to toe, and try to gauge his progress by checking eye levels. He'd ask what vitamins he could take to make himself grow. He'd search the internet for foods he could eat to spark the coveted vertical growth. It was just a constant weight on his mind and, sometimes, I wanted to pull my hair out, honestly.

That is....until around the first of this year. Halfway through his senior year, Carson started falling asleep every time he'd sit down. On the floor. On the couch. A straight back chair. Riding in the car. Lights on. Lights off. People making noise. Didn't matter. He even fell asleep while we were enjoying an evening at the house of some friends. He was sitting in a chair and just leaned over the chair arm and, within a minute, was sleeping like a passed out drunk. He was doing that heavy, loud breathing, you know, like you do when you're really sleeping good. It got so ridiculous that I gave him a stern, "Carson! Wake up, son!" as I was afraid he was going to start drooling on their furniture. And you can't wake him. Forget it. You'd have more luck going to the cemetery and trying to rouse somebody down there.

Now, I know you're thinking...the boy has narcolepsy, but no. I'm all too familiar with how much boys sleep when they're growing. I grew up between two of those creatures. My younger brother practically slipped into a coma during those years. We thought his sheets would become grafted to his skin. After our concerned mother took him to the doctor, he found the problem to be that Lee had grown 6 inches in 8 months. Apparently, it really takes it out of you to grow like that.

And when Carson isn't sleeping, he's eating or asking what we're about to eat or what we have to eat or what we plan to eat in the future or what time we're going to eat or when we're going to buy more to eat. The light in our refrigerator is always shining like the star of Bethlehem. A beacon of hope and provision. One Chick-fil-A sandwich doesn't get the job done anymore. Forget having leftovers for tomorrow's lunch. And the boy can put away some milk, I'm here to tell you.

I also know, all too well, about how boys eat when they're growing. They are metabolic machines. My older brother ate like a pregnant goat on steroids. I know I've told y'all this before, but he's the reason I eat so fast to this day. You had a small window of time to take in your life sustenance before he devoured everything. It was a matter of survival just like on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. And I'd have to go to the grocery store with my mother to push the second buggy. One just didn't cut it when he was a teenager. Four gallons of milk sat in the child seat of the cart. Four. And things stuffed all up under the bottom of the cart. I remember, one night, we all went to bed with a new loaf of bread on the counter, leaving Zane up to watch TV. When we got up, the next day, there were 3 pieces of bread left. He'd made himself some sandwiches.

So, we didn't realize what all Carson's eating and sleeping was really adding up to until we were reminiscing and looking through wedding pictures on Blair and John Samuel's recent one year anniversary. What a difference a year makes.
  

I wouldn't really say this counts as a blog post, but I did think I should check in since it's been a little while. I've rejoined the outside world as I went to the doctor and regained my driving privileges, mid-week. I couldn't wait to drive myself somewhere. Anywhere, really. I'd even go so far to say that I may have been more excited to drive, last Wednesday, than I was when I first got my license at 15 and that's what you'd call a pretty heightened level of excitement.

I'm doing really good, but I still just run out of gas early, which is why I haven't posted. Nighttime is my writing time and I've just been conking out. That will have to work itself out soon as I must retake my rightful place as queen of the night. (wait, that doesn't sound quite right)

Anyway, I'll try to get back before the week is over. Just wanted you to know that, despite the writing goal I set for tonight, it's now 8:36 p.m.and I'm just trying to stay awake to, at least, a minimally respectable hour for a card carrying night owl.

I've been missing this! I'll get my act together soon, people.

Night!