I’m back. And while everyone out there in the weblogging world seems to be posting their Christmas wish (and received) lists online, I’m pleased to share with you the rules for a new holiday tradition in which I partook this year: A Struthers Family Christmas:

1. Christmas comes but once a year, but gift gathering last the whole year through. Always keep your eye out for that special gift for your loved one; you never know when or where you might find it.
2. All items bought must come from a garage sale, estate sale, moving sale, lawn sale, junk sale, Goodwill, Salvation Army, or any other type of second-hand store. You get the idea.
3. Re-gifted items are great, too. You may give items you have received as gifts if you don’t like them. No hard feelings if you give it away again. But remember, it has to be something given to you, not something you bought new and used first.
4. Free is especially good. Promotional items such as cups, caps, pencils, pens, posters, and t-shirts are great. Bonus checks and gifts certificates are okay, if they are free to you.
5. Garage sales in May, June, July, August and September are the main Christmas shopping months.
6. No last minute shopping in crowding stores with crabby clerks and irate, tired fellow shoppers. The Goodwill is never crowded at Christmas time!
7. You don’t have to ask, �Why did I get this crap?� Because, you know, it was cheap!
8. Total cost of all gifts must not exceed $10 per person, so you don’t have to float a loan or over-load your credit card.
9. It’s not how much you spend. It’s how many gifts you can get for $10 that counts.
10. Cheap, cheap, cheap and fun, fun, fun!

I came out a winner this year with a Betty Crocker sandwich maker, a new wok, a French coffee press, glassware, candles, cutting boards, power strips, wall adornments, and of course, a �bosom friend.� More on that later. Of course, my own mom and dad once again overwhelmed me with their wonderful generosity. Thanks, again, for a too-quick holiday weekend.

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Select photos from the holiday celebrations are now online! I plan to finish out 2000 with a few more quiet evenings at home, writing a few New Year’s resolutions, and thoroughly enjoying my unusually fast Internet connection while all the kiddies at Olaf are playing at home.

So, they really did buy growzan.com and inmyunderwear.com.

My cousin Paul was kind enough to send me a portion of the Claire Swires email I was seeking the other day. Of course, I forwarded it on, possibly opening up the possibility to my own Claire Swires scenario …

Last time …

Trimming the tree

The caption for this photo: “Why I did not put up a Christmas tree this year.*” Consternation followed, however, after this grave decision because, don’t you see, no tree equals no Christmas ornaments.

A few years back, when I moved into my own apartment and decided that henceforth I would be getting and decorating my own Christmas tree, my mom sent with me a box of all my very own Christmas ornaments. These are the ornaments she has been collecting for me since the day I was born … some have “1975″ and “1976″ etched on the bottom, others are more recent as I’ve acquired a few ornaments probably every year I’ve been alive.

There are Mickey Mouses and Goofys from our trips to Disneyland and Disneyworld. There are half a dozen French horn ornaments — I used to play up through college. There’s my favorite angels on clouds collection. But my most prized ornament? I must have made it in Montessori school when I was only five (or younger) … it’s a piece of dough, this round cookie shaped thing, painted with a yellowy-gold paint (most likely Tempera). A little hook drilled through the top kept in hanging on my family’s tree in a most prominent location. God, was it ugly. And I think a few years ago the dough actually started to rot.

This year I will only have fond memories of the ornament. And next year, I’ll get a tree again. So tell me, what do you hang on your tree?

* Wondering how the hell the tree thing happened? My apartment is a bit dry in the winter, and I did happen to leave it without water for oh, ten days or so … if I’m not responsible enough to take care of a tree, how could I even consider an actual live pet?

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Better think first about sending that sexy email. (If you can find a copy of the email, let me know: for running rampant across the Internet, I sure as hell can’t find it.)

Let it snow?

No! I hate the stuff! Sure, it’s pretty for, oh, five minutes when it’s coming down all soft and feathery and dainty like and “covers the earth in a soft blanket” and blah blah blah. But let’s get real here! In a few days, check out that pile of brown crap by the side of the road, all slushy and nasty like, or that enevitable snow job in the mall parking lot that won’t disappear ’til April. Pretty. Ugly. I. Say.

I must have no good snow childhood memories. Instead, most of my thoughts on snow revolve around smashing my parents’ Nissan Maxima into a chain link fence and russian olive tree at the bottom of a steep hill one slickery November morning. Or driving home after a movie a few weeks ago, south on 35W, creeping along at 30 mph, hoping to God I wouldn’t follow the two cars ahead of me into the ditch.

This weekend Chicago was pummeled. Thirteen plus inches at Midway, in just 12 hours! In town for a conference this past weekend, we ventured out on Michigan avenue. They closed down the Magnificent Mile early Monday night … we were left to find the one cab in the Windy City willing and able to take us back, dejected, to our hotel.

Just think how we’ll all feel come mid-January. Windchill: 40 below. The snow actually squeaks beneath your shoes. Worse than fingernails down a chalkboard.

I swear, it’s not the cold, it’s not the lack of sun that give me the winter doldrums. It’s the damned snow! Enough!

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I returned from the Windy City last night. Found out that Jason’s been offered a fabulous position at KPLU in Seattle, where it never snows. Another possible offer from NPR in the near future? Congratulations, Jason! Also in Chicago: admired Sue at the Field Museum, and am in total awe over the Art Institute’s paperweight collection. I finally made it to the top of the Sears Tower, and Jerry Springer walked by me while dining at The Cheesecake Factory.

I’ve been disappointed that Christine at maganda.org stopped doing daily entries at the “girl” section of her site. But she delivered a gem today! Be sure to check out “today” for more beautiful writing, not to mention gorgeous imagery. The link isn’t on her home page yet, so bookmark it now.

The wheels on the bus…

Remember when you were a kid and always wished the school would burn down? Hooray! No school! The building’s been gutted! Try this one on for size: the kids in Robbinsdale aren’t going to school today not because of a raging fire. They aren’t going to school because they can’t get a ride.

What? No ride? Yep. The school bus drivers are striking. Seen ‘em on the news this morning, in the dark, carrying a few signs, with some snow flakes coming down from the early morning sky. And inside? First graders, fifth graders, junior high kids, seniors at the high school, sleeping snugly in bed because no one would pick them up and drive them to school this morning. You got it: they called school off today because the bus drivers went on strike.

I’m appalled, really. I must come from the only town in the United States that doesn’t have school bus service within the city — only kids from rural areas were bused to school. Mom or Dad always dropped me off . . . or I walked . . . . but a bus in town? Hmm.

Then again, what’s a parent to do? Go to work earlier or later so they can drop off and pick up little Susie or Billy? Or, take the day off so he or she can stay home with their children? I’m sure that’s what many parents are doing today, unable to find day care at the last minute. Tomorrow? Start rearranging your schedules, parents, ‘cuz who knows how long the strike’s gonna last.

And kids? Run outside! Make snow angels! And just be happy it’s only the bus.

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Real news about the strike. And a letter to students and parents from the school, stating the school will remain in session should a strike occur.

While I’m not posting my entire Christmas wish list online, I am going to say that the concept of a charm bracelet is really quite … charming.

I don’t generally post links to my work web site, but on this one occasion, I’m excited to share one of my favorite Christmas traditions: the St. Olaf Christmas Festival audio is now online.

Last time …

Sometimes I complain too much.

My office is cold. My butt is too big. My apartment is too small. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I don’t want to get up. Work stinks.

I’ve never heard her complain. She works in my office. She’s the ever-kind receptionist who sits by the door, greetings guests, and more importantly, holding our office together.

She is a grandmother, raising her grandaughter. The grandaughter, the last time I heard, was in a foster home 50 miles away, in hopes that a change of pace would be a good change for her. ADD. On medication. A runaway. In hearings. In therapy.

Yet, she never complains.

“Thank you,” she emails us, “for letting me use some of my vacation time to attend a counseling session with her.”

She never complains. We meet every day as on office team, huddling around the fireplace at 8:30, to share news of what we’re doing, what’s happening at home. On Fridays, a “balancing act” — stritctly un-work-related news of home, family, cheer, grief — reminding us that life is more than our 8 to 5 office. She? Quiet on Fridays.

“I’ll be out of the office,” she emails us again this morning, “seeing the doctors today. Hopefully they’ll find out what’s wrong.” Today she’s at Mayo while they do a biopsy on her lung. The headaches? Related? Or maybe not. The water in her chest, fluid in her ankles. Causes unknown. “Thank you for the beautiful spring flowers you sent. I picked up the mail yesterday and will have my cell phone today. I promise to call if I hear anything.”

She never complains.

Today, my thoughts are with her.

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Congrats, Rog, on the new prized possession. Can’t wait til summer arrives and the top is down!

The defunct Eve.com is once again sending me gift certificates to other online beauty retailers. I can’t believe how much I’ve enjoyed a favorite store closing.

The other night I dreamt I met Derek Powazek. He was selling apples at an orchard and I was wearing a t-shirt with his picture on it. He asked me whose web sites I visited. Now is that a strange dream, or what?

Last time …