I'm back in the home saddle after our three day Christmas juggernaut in Flagstaff. In my nearly nightly fit of wee hour insomnia, I decided to tear through a weeks worth of mail.
Amid the mounds of bills, solicitations and a plurality of J. Crew catalogs (three days garnered three catalogs), I noticed a few tardy Christmas cards with the Fischer family name on it.
Being a sorta gimme the good news first kinda guy, I chose to open the cards first. There's something magical about an envelope that's been addressed with handwritten scribe. Orderly cursive yields bonus sentiment.
As I opened the first card, my early morning serenity took a decidedly ugly turn. The card was filled with the most egregiously excessive amount of silver glitter, which all came spilling out of the envelope and on to my lap, desk, office chair and the carpet below.
Admittedly, I reacted in an entirely immature and overly dramatic way, complete with deep sighs and under my breath cussing, careful not to wake baby Fischer. Worse yet, as I looked at the return address to identify the glitter perpetrator, I noticed that it came from the most ancillary of peripheral associates.
How is it that the parents of Mrs. Fischer's college friend has us on their mailing list? Heck, if they're sending Christmas cards to us, than there must be, like, thousands of others that received a similar glitter ambush.
Please gang, enough with the glitter.
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