Must Be Christmas...

Steve's parents have decided to lend us the use of their second car, which should make things considerably easier. And I slept in, in, in today, having a succession of truly odd dreams: Some sort of N'Orleans-set Faust variant in which the Devil was played by Phillip Seymour Hoffman ("I'll sell you my soul, man, but you really need to pull up your pants and hide that plumber's crack"); Shelley's woman with eyes for nipples (sovay, you and I seem to have tuned in on the same bandwidth). In the longest and most coherent scenario, Steve and I were already in said car, speeding along a very slippery road towards one of those dream-bridges whose climb grows ever-steeper on examination--I suddenly realized we were both in the back-seat, and still "dressed" for bed (ie, not much). "Who the Hell is driving?" I demanded. "Oh, it'll be okay," Steve said, blithely, at which point I saw that Cal was driving. With his feet.

The exhaustion is probably five parts yesterday's cleaning spasm vs. five parts anticipation of tonight and tomorrow's "festivities". God knows, my shoulder was puffed like an adder when I woke up the first time. And Cal has been tearing up and down, fake-laughing at the top of his lungs, whipping his pants off at every opportunity; yesterday he peed on the floor, literally, right in front of the hall mirror. God, I hate this season!