Today I started my Christmas shopping. I like to be prepared. (I remember my mom always started her Christmas shopping sometime before the end of summer.) I've been told (by Lisa most recently, but by others in the past) that I have the "gift-giving gene," meaning that I enjoy shopping for presents, enjoy making presents, enjoy giving presents, and have a tendency to come up with stuff that people will actually like. This isn't true for everyone, of course, as there are a couple of family members on my list whose likes I find extremely difficult to fathom, and so I tend to give them presents that I consider crappy, but in general I have a lot of fun with the whole gift exchange ritual. I mean, how cool is it to happen to see some book, or DVD, or CD, or t-shirt, or brand of ginger beer, or board game, or mug, or whatever, and know that you can give it to some person who will love it but who never before knew that it existed? It's pretty high up on my list of favorite things.
And then there are people like Lisa, who wait until the last possible moment to do their shopping, and angst the entire time. I remember that my first boyfriend once bought his mom's birthday present by walking into a Hallmark store and picking up the first thing he saw that seemed even vaguely appropriate (some kind of mug, if I remember correctly) and just buying that. Obligation fulfilled. Sad.
I had some kind of mysterious virus last week, which kept me dragging my butt around for several days in a row. Today I've been feeling pretty good, though. Huzzah! I am healed!
In other news, my left wrist hurts like hell. It's pissing me off. Several times a day I do something wrong (like moving my hair with my left hand, or trying to get something out of my back pocket, or whatever) without thinking and shout, "Ow! Fuck!" It's a good thing I don't hang out in "polite company" very often, because I think this Tourettes-like behavior wouldn't be appreciated. But, you know, I mostly prefer not to hang out in "polite company," anyway. I might have to wear socks. Maybe even socks that match. I prefer impolite company.
Actually, since I'm writing about my wrist, I think I'll go find some ice packs. This routine is considerably more pleasant in summer than it is now, but oh well. C'est la vie. En hiver. Wait ... is that even French? My memory sucks.