Christmas for Deaux

I thought that I would be noble this year and take on the Christmas shifts so that my co-workers could me with their families here in PA. Oh who am I kidding?! I'm the newest, the pee-on, the low gal on the totem-pole and I did not have a choice in the matter.
That's the shit thing about the newspaper industry — the damn thing keeps on grinding.

There was potential for big headliney Christmas tragedies, but thankfully, my only writing was about natural death - read, obit patrol.

Nothing like keying in death notices to make you feel all warm and fuzzy for the holiday. If anything, the obits reminded me to call my grandparents, so I had that going for me.

In between shifts, I managed to have one of my best Christmases in memory.

It was just Quack and I, and we really made the most out of it. We grilled steaks (sans coats, people!) and cracked a bottle of wine. We ate by candlelight and then exchanged cozy and practical gifts (luggage and cookbooks) near our tree.

The tree, which is a actually a timeline of Quack's youth, is adorned with various photos of a little toothless Quackito and colored macaroni and Popsicle sticks glued into a wreath-like piles.

I came home on Christmas Eve and had a special surprise for the Quackster. In a last minute Christmas miracle I found Leinenkugels (one of the Mid-West's best comfort beers) at a nearby take-out joint.

"I have a special gift for you," I say teasingly.

"I do to," he says with a sly-fox smile.

Me: "Oh."

Q: "Give me you hand."

Me: Gulp.

From his shirt pocket the man pulls a perfectly shaped band….. SWEAT BAND THAT IS!

That effer.

Later in the night, after opening gifts, I curled up on the couch and he played with the iPod I got him. He was bustin' moves a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business (complete with boxers and white T-shirt) all around the apartment. Clearly this last minute gift (bought X-mas Eve, eve with tip cash from the coffee shop) was the money shot.

The night settled down into some good old fashioned anti-humping. I finished up the baby booties I've learned to knit, now that my friends are in the baby-making business, and Quack cracked open the book I got him.

We go home next week for the full X-mas blitz, which I'm looking forward to, but now I know what Mariah Carey was squawking about when she sang, "All I Want For Christmas Is You."