Xmas spirit.

I'm sitting in bed, mowing through a bag of mini Reese's peanut butter cups (which have a higher chocolate to peanut-butter ratio and are almost a perfect food) and reading Anne Lamott's book of essays, Plan B: Further Thought on Faith. I'm pissy and brooding because all my people are busy doing other things--working out, playing with their cousins, going to San Francisco to "hang out--and nobody is able to accompany me to get the Christmas tree. I've waited a week. I'm ready. The furniture's moved and the stand is sitting there empty, a big gaping, empty maw. Then I read this passage from Anne, who was talking about George W. but could have been talking about my thoughtless family:

But Jesus kept harping on forgiveness and loving one's enemies, so I decided to try. Why couldn't Jesus command us to obsess about everything, to try to control and manipulate people, to try not to breathe at all, or to pay attention, stomp away to brood when people annoy us, and then eat a big bag of Hershey's Kisses in bed?

It's almost like an intervention from God, no?