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Location: Work.
Listening: "Oy To The World" by No Doubt.

The first Christmas spent at 1260 went very well.

I spent Christmas Eve day running around town, doing last-minute shopping for dinner. Hit Bristol Farms for pork tenderloin and fresh vegetables, Ralph's for more commonplace ingredients, and Trader Joe's for wine. I eventually came home to find Peter washing dishes and a slip from UPS, claiming that they had tried to deliver Austin's present while I was out. Peter never received a call, so I spent some time on the phone with customer service, trying to get the driver to return to the house. They finally agreed to pass the message on to my local delivery station and to have someone call me in one hour. Of course, no one called. I determined to deal with them later this week and went off to make dinner.

Christmas dinner, which was finally served at around 11:30 PM, consisted of pork tenderloin with a citrus-rosemary pan sauce, steamed green beans with mushrooms, herbed carrots and onions, my mother's broccoli casserole, rolls, and wine (Ravenswood 1999 Napa Valley Red Zinfandel). We ate on the den floor, as we had done at Thanksgiving, and took pictures of the food and ourselves prior to digging in. After some discussion, two traditions may have been established: smooching under the tree and Christmas dinner at midnight (which definitely takes care of the Christmas Eve or Christmas Day? debate).

After dinner, I banished Peter to the bathroom and then to the den while I wrapped part of his present in the bedroom. He'd been preening for weeks that he knew what I was getting for him (although he also swore that he hadn't peeked in the closet at all), so I tried to be crafty and wrap part of the present in another box. This threw him off a little when I finally emerged with the gift, placed it under the tree, and fell into bed at around 3:00 AM.

Peter woke me just before 9:00 on Christmas morning, bouncing on the bed and grinning. I remembered that he's the youngest child and tried to hide in the covers, but to no avail. Finally, I pulled on one of his sweaters and my fuzzy brown pants and meandered slowly into the den, where we proceeded to unwrap with a vengeance.

My presents were lovely and much appreciated:

• A sage green cashmere sweater (to match Peter's) from Peter's family.
• A grey-green long-sleeved top from Peter's family.
• Black lounging pants from Peter's family.
• Hand-painted earrings from Peter's family.
• A Borders gift card from my brother.
• A very generous check from my parents.
• A Victorian Santa ornament from Peter's aunt.
• Another very generous check from Peter's aunt.
• A handmade bookmark from Jenn.
• A stainless steel 10qt. stock pot from Austin.
• Christmas cookie cutters from Austin.
  ...and...
• A 1934 Underwood portable typewriter, mint condition, with carrying case from Peter.

  I had suspected that Peter was going to present me with something having to do with writing. He had hinted as much on several occasions. I certainly didn't expect something like this, though. The typewriter is just beautiful and in perfect working order. I only lack a newer ribbon and, apparently, can acquire one from several places online if I can provide them with the model number of the ribbon currently in the machine. Whether or not I ever get to write on it, though, it's still a wonderful gift. I've wanted one since I lived in Hollywood five years ago. I cried when I opened it. Peter was very proud of his gift (and rightfully so) and had tried to get me to open it after dinner, but I had insisted on waiting until Christmas morning--and I'm glad I did. The sunlight came through the window and hit the keys just enough to make them sparkle, little dust motes were floating in the air from the antique carrying case, and the den smelled, for just a few moments, of that wonderful mustiness of very old things--the smell of old libraries or my grandmother's jewelry box. *sigh*

  Peter unwrapped his Playstation 2 and accompanying game: Metal Gear Solid: Sons of Liberty and, after doing his requisite celebration dance, launched into playing it while I launched into napping on the sofa. When I woke, Peter took my place with the signed Terry Pratchett book he'd gotten from his mother, and promptly fell asleep. I went about doing several loads of laundry, downloading some photos from Nerve (you know, the usual Christmas entertainment), and doing a little background research on North Africa for a story I might or might not be writing (the presence of my typewriter has already started to make me think). I finally attempted cinnamon spice pancakes and polska for a late dinner and promptly wrinkled the former beyond repair and burned the latter. I became fed up with my lack of kitchen space, covered the food, and returned to the den, where I spoke with Peter who had just awakened and jotted down a little lyric-thing that had been bothering me before heading off to bed myself.

  Up and down, back and forth, a mixture of the typical 1260 day and Christmas. Cloved oranges, four flickering lights from a square blue candle, and the glow of the tree kept reminding me that it was the holiday in case I overlooked the wrapping paper strewn on the floor or became too confused with the light-laden houses in the 60 degree air outside. My first Christmas in California was strange, and I'm still adapting to it, as one adapts to the first new spin on a familiar routine of more than two decades. I will probably still be contemplating it for the next few weeks--the traditions I brought to the home and upheld, the ones I discarded, and the ones that seemed to spring up as traditions do when one is celebrating their first Christmas with someone and looking forward to more.