This is the time of year when you’re supposed to feel all warm…
and cuddly…
…but I’m not one who’s all that big on Christmas (evidenced by the fact that of ALL the Christmas”y” images I could have used to exemplify the season, I picked the ones that were on the tip envelopes I got this morning from my garbarge-men).
It’s not that I’m anti-Christmas. I like it fine when I’m traveling or doing something outside my normal life. But here in Carmel, “cute” as it is, it’s more sigh than yippee.
Maybe it’s ’cause I get moody from light deprivation and Christmas is usually accompanied by cloudy, gray days and damp, starless nights. Or maybe ’cause I’m not big on amping myself up to be happy just because it’s the season when you’re expected to be happy. (Same reason I’m not big on New Year’s Eve parties…who cares about it really unless that’s the only time you’re allowed to stay up to midnight and drink champagne.)
Still, I’ve done the requisite stuff to be in the spirit community-wise.
I put up the tree in the store…
I built my yearly snowman in Caledonia park for the kids in Pacific Grove…
And I sang Christmas music with a community chorus.
But completely by coincidence and not in any way of my doing, I’ve agreed to loan out the garden store for the most UN-Christmasy thing I can imagine. (Not the event, itself actually. A book-signing is kinda season-friendly…lot’s of people give books at Christmas.)
But THIS book is about terrorism and the insurance industry.
Ahh, pull out the eggnog and sit on Santa’s knee.
Th p.r. blurb for Terminal Policy reads:
Well, it may not be glad tidings and cheer, but it kinda fits my mood.
