December 19, 1998.

The worst thing about the season isn't rude shoppers or hysterical family members pushed over the edge or even the reckless consumption of cranberry sauce. It's the length of the light. I don't suffer from SAD in a diagnosable way, but everybody gets a bit down in the dark (except for poseur babygoths, that is). I've been staying up to 3 a.m. the last couple of days, and by the time I get my requisite vacation sleep (at least two hours more than my usual sleep, that is) I have maybe 2 hours of natural light left. And since I'm in my flannel nightgown during those hours anyway, it's not like I'm maximizing the time.

Unless you consider the figure of me in a little-bears-on-ice-skates interesting. Very few do. No accounting for tastes, is there?

Herm, what was I talking about again? Does it really matter?

Last night I visited Little Spider's new puppy. She's a tiny Boston Terrier named Violet, and she's absolutely adorable. Not much personality as yet, but she's just a baby. Highlight of the night - when she went on the paper. I wish I had more juicy things to report, but any scandalous talk was greatly curtailed by Little Spider's mom in the next room. So we just watched Doctor Dolittle and thought about strippers. I hadn't realized that strip clubs would become an issue in all of our personal lives once we hit a certain age.

I feel kind of cheated. Adulthood shouldn't be about this, you know? I don't know what it should be about, but this just doesn't seem right. As Stacy said recently, "if this is what getting old is all about, then I'm getting a petition going."

Merry fucking Christmas.