Dear Dear Diary
Friday, December 17, 2010
 
Every Monday, I have lunch with a friend in a little diner downtown. It's a classic used to be a railroad diner car with the kitchen added on, in a poor neighborhood, so the food has to be good and cheap and plenty. There is a wide variety of clientele, from the cops to the unfortunate to the senior citizens in their once pristine furs, to people like myself and my friend who try to squeeze a good nosh and natter into a lunch hour.

But last Monday, we had something I hadn't seen before, Santa Claus came for lunch. He had natural long white hair and a real beard, and the suit was old-fashioned with little bells sewn on. It might have even been real fur trimming those cuffs. My friend commented on the gloves - the only serious discord of his outfit- they were black. I quipped that made it easier to handle the coal.

Santa greeted a few of the patrons by name, certainly the servers. So I assumed he was usually a regular there, and just happened to enjoy walking around in the suit. But I don't know. He certainly looked through you than at you, when he greeted you. And he did walk around and greet everyone. He told everyone to be good, and then he left. Without even getting food or coffee.

Now, I did make my usual snotty comment that is a bad habit when told to be good. I say I'd rather be Georg, or I like being Naughty. But Santa smiled at me, and left the diner.

Later, when I left the diner myself, there were more than the usual opportunities to do good deeds - the lady in the electric wheelchair who needed eggs from the fridge, letting the handicapped plaque car have that fantastic spot near the front (that wasn't flagged as handicapped), and several other things. I took the chances as they came, and I spread happy thoughts, and I felt good about it. Normally, shopping this close to Christmas leaves me in nothing but snarls and a cloud of foul mood surrounds me, and I come home exhausted and grumpy and just not fit for company. Not this time though.

I blame Santa. In the best possible way.
 
(1) comments
This rather schizophrenic blog was started as a fictional blog, written by a character of a story. I've since taken it over for writing personal stuff I don't mind sharing with anyone who cares. I am also writing thoughts about writing and stories that move me.


Other places I go:
Georg's Research
Help local kitties
I have relatives. Be afraid
Blessed is the One True Tami
Tata the Bodacious
Obligatory Yarn Harlot
It is impossible not to love Sandi Wiseheart once you've met her
The Tsarina
Holiday Yarns
Habetrot
I like the name Twiggi
Who to blame for my sock addiction
Maybe the cleverest blog title
Romancing the Yarn
Why I read Romancing the Yarn
Get an ab work out with laughter
My Kitty Obsession
Kittehs
You meet the nicest people playing video games
I'm such a fanboi
Rabbitch
One of my stalker targets
The other stalkee
I just love Josh (the cat)
Josh the Cat and friends
Pet politics
Pet Care
If I were a sheep, I'd be Delores
I live here now
Not Your Mama's Crafters
Make a Lily Pad


Anything not marked might be just me, Georg, posting as myself.

It's just this blog, okay? Some of it is story. Some of it is animals. Some of it is knitting. It's a blog.

For story #1, I do recommend starting from the beginning of this blog if you haven't read this before. Please start at the beginning.

I did mean it to be for http://www.nanowrimo.org - but I never got quite got it done under the wire.

CAST:
Jeannie is the author/main character.
Frank is her husband. Poor man.
Tony is musician/singer.
Angie is a teenager, who was Jeannie's best friend. Now currently dead.
Honestly, there is no connection between Jeannie and me and Frank and my husband.

Story #2
Frank and Ether. This will be much weirder than Frank and Jeannie. I like the name Frank. No one expects a Frank to lie.

Story #3
A desert story. Anna is the main character. Currently there is only her little brother and an old servant, and a mysterious redhead.

Story #4
The necro story. A young necromancer heads off to the Hated Ones to find her trousseau.

Story X
Reserving this for one-offs, poems, etc.


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Marriage is love.

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