PhotoBlog: The Magic of Christmas

In the spirit of Christmas (And my burgeoning insanity spurred on by the reality that, for the next two weeks/eternity, I am trapped in my Los Angeles home), here are some holiday photos for you to enjoy. Normally, I would share these precious moments with you via Yahoo! Photos (Since I refuse to put them on Facebook. Some things are sacred.), but I am befuddled by the new layout. I am saving you a stress migraine.


Behold our glorious Christmas tree. The fire is roaring; the stockings are hung by the chimney with care. Someone kill me. It's 75 degrees outside.


I present to you, Dr. George Thannisch, in all his glory. This retired pediatrician and aspiring blueberry wine-maker will tempt you with his vine-grown confection, but I advise you to run, run away!! Save yourself from the worst thirty seconds of your life while the acidic fluid flows down your throat on its way to play with your insides. (Note: I am not ignoring the impressive bounty of Santa figurines. I hope they speak for themselves.)


The Thannisch Men. I have nothing witty to say. I just like this picture.


This is my step-dad, Tim. My Uncle John built a "game room" in his backyard over the summer. I stand by my belief that he only built it to house his hunting trophies and taxidermied animals. Oh, that's right. It's a hobby.



Taxidermied turkey in-flight. It's all about presentation. Right?


My mom and her brothers.


Oh. Sweet. Moses.


Mom's proud of her roots.


When I took this picture, my mom said, "Make sure you get the lightbulb and the toothpaste in the shot."


Uncle John making his famous beer batter biscuits. Paula would be proud. I think they contain both butter and lard.


Genius?


They stay up at the Eason cabin watching Andy Griffith and shooting squirrels with cross-bows.


Two words: Trout beer-cozy.


Grandparents. Mom. Me.

Lufkin, Texas truly is the land of dreams. And if your dreams die hard, I will give you my uncle's number and he will taxidermy them for you.

Here Comes The Sun

Only hours away from my final exam of the semester, a JetBlue flight leaving promptly at 6:45AM Wednesday morning (Complete with five glorious hours of Food Network and old Project Runway marathons), and the stress-free delights of winter season, I am swamped by the daunting tasks that lie ahead within the next, extremely short, twenty seven hours. Not even taking into account the fact that my Econ independent study adviser has ignored my last four emails (Don't even tell me you don't check your email at least twice a day, Professor Dye, not everyone fully understands the concept of inflation), I am about to take the most erudite final on the history of the planet (Including seven [7!!] ID essays, and the most vague final essay question on the plant -- What is Modernism?. Gee, I don't know, MV, YOU TELL ME!!), do all of my holiday shopping, say all my good-byes, and pack to return to my hell away from home, sunny Los Angeles, where an 80 degree not-so-white Christmas surely awaits. There was a time when I looked forward to December 25. A time when I didn't have to think about a billion things at once (No exaggeration) right before I opened my very last advent calender window, revealing the pseudo-stale, not so great chocolate-y treat.

Pardon the convoluted sentence structure. I just spent the last seven hours reading up on Woolf, Barnes, and Faulkner. My brain is a puddle.

However, I am inches away from three weeks of vacation bliss, where I will be snuggled under covers day in and day out enjoying (Gasp!) recreational reading and some mulled cider. I will also be ignoring my urge to check my grades every three seconds. Because Lord knows, this semester was a wash, leaving my GPA in the woods for dead.

If you're in the Los Angeles area, give me a ring. Remind me that the sun is shining outside (To my dismay). I'll be back in New York January 14, and believe me, my next chaotic semester couldn't come quickly enough, despite the fact that the proportional relationship between my stress/overcommittedness and sleep (More of the former, less of the latter, of course) is sure to skyrocket to epic, outer-worldly levels. Looking forward to the insanity.