I know it's the season for Pollyanna drivel and I'm as sentimental as the next guy, but soon the Christmas trees will be piled up for shredding and the realization comes that every day marks another 12-month revolution around the sun.
But, as I said, I'm a sentimental soul, and until that joyous moment when I throw the tree on the curb, I'm going to reflect on my blessings. In no particular order: I can read and write, get a haircut, pick up the dry cleaning and, oh yeah, try to get rich (sold Ford this morning at $2.15, locking in a profit of $1.00 after watching it melt down the last two days. Pressure from the Toyota news was too much it turns out and I got scared. Maybe we'll get back in later. I will let you know.).
I'm headed for the South Street Seaport in downtown Manhattan now with my children to last-minute shop for their mother and have lunch at Wendy's. This date and the destinations have been in my Palm for years since we started doing it some 10 years ago (at first with the older one and now with both). It's more fun than it sounds.
Dinner tomorrow? Same as years past: Prime rib (with horseradish on the side), twice-backed potatoes topped with cheddar and green bean casserole. I'm the chef.
Peace on earth, good will toward men. I read that somewhere. It's also in my Palm. Merry Christmas.
Now I've gotta find that Santa Claus tie I bought from a street vendor.
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