For My Next Witness,
I'd Like To Call Santa Claus
Every Christmas can't bring snow. What we had was rain and fog. I had to drive to get my brother, then we went to Baltimore for an early dinner at McCormick & Schmick's.
The meal was luxe, and we had the best table in the house: at the windows, looking out at the Seven Foot Knolls Lighthouse and the water.
On the ride up, I was talking to my brother about last week's Redskins game against the Giants and what the Redskins' chances were in this upcoming game against the Philadelphia Eagles on New Year's Day. My brother was chuckling and said under his breath, "listen to her." I bristled and said, "What? You think girls can't talk about football? I love the Redskins...and they look so cute in those colors." We went by the Ravens stadium on our way to dinner and we debated whether or not they were playing a home game that night (they were, and won), and we saw a bad car accident right by the stadium.
The ride back into D.C. was equally long and tiring, bad visiblility was holding forth, and I was thinking sometimes it would be nice to stay at home on Christmas Day, be in your fuzzies and do nothing but watch back to back episodes of Law and Order while hearing those yuletide phrases of "blunt force trauma" and "exit wound" while curled before the glow of the transmitting hearth.
Number Three? Step to the front and say "Ho, ho, ho."