So explain to me why I hate the Charlie Brown Christmas album so much, but love the debut album by the Vince Guaraldi Trio.

No, I didn’t think you could, either.

It probably has something to do with the destructive over-playing of the same half-dozen Christmas albums every December. I like jazz. I like jazz Christmas songs. And yet, I do not like Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas album.

Eh. Whatever.

My personal vote for the best Christmas album (meaning something different, with original takes on classics, as well as some rarely-heard seasonal stuff) is, in fact, Holly Cole’s Baby, It’s Cold Outside. I got all excited a day or so ago when I discovered a listing for another Holly Cole Christmas album, a Japanese release entitled Santa Baby: Live in Toronto, but it’s no longer available, and I have all the songs on other albums anyway.

My love for Baby, It’s Cold Outside is sourced not only by Holly’s incredible vocal treatment of the music, but particularly by the stellar recording of the title track, Frank Loesser’s Baby, It’s Cold Outside, performed as a duet with Ed Robertson from The Barenaked Ladies. For those of you who were at the Stuart McLean show last Friday, Lisa Lindo and Chris Whiteley did a decent job of it, although I still prefer Holly’s version. I could leave it on a repeat loop for hours. Not that I have; no, I’d be afraid of over-playing it and desensitizing myself to it! Christmas music rapidly becomes tiresome; I’d rather not have that happen to my favourite Christmas album, thanks.

Actually, there is another album that I love at Christmas, but it vanished from my collection over two years ago (and I hope whoever has it now is enjoying it, muttergrumblegrr). It’s A Waverly Consort Christmas. I finally broke down and special-ordered another copy, since I can’t seem to find it on the racks anywhere (which surprises me not at all, since it isn’t a pop or country singer’s rehash of seasonal chestnuts). It will be four to six weeks before it arrives, naturally. At least I’ll have it for next December.

I think I’ve hit on a pretty decent plan.

I wake up; I get out of bed right away. I wash, make tea, log on my computer, and work for at least two hours, preferably four, before I even think of taking a break.

Yesterday, I wrote a freelance article. Today, I did a slew of research on Montreal publishers and writers, and wrote a slew of requests for review copies for the magazine.

There’s only one thing preventing all this work from being resolved: my work e-mail is giving me grief. I can receive, but I cannot send. Eudora keeps telling me sweetly that it’s connecting, but that the connection times out.

So let me get this straight: this set-up and connection will merrily receive, but it will not deliver outgoing mail. It connects to the same IP number at the other end.

Grr.

In the meantime, I have a pile of letters and requests for review copies and press releases sitting here. I’m so close. Almost there.

I think I need more tea.

Bake, bake, bake. Write. Bake. Chat with my mother. Bake. Write.

Piles of baked goods. Yummy-smelling house. Happy, happy Autumn.

Time comes for dinner. I take out the tourtiere we picked up at Loblaws this morning, the box claiming that it’s Made from a traditional Quebecois recipe. My mother used to create an amazing home-made tourtiere that was our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. I proceed to get nostalgic. Open box, pop tourtiere in the oven.

Idly turn over box. Read ingredients.

Pork, beef, veal; water, onions, textured soy protein, potatoes –

Whoa. Jus’ whoa.

Textured soy protein?

I’m fairly certain that traditional Quebecois recipes for tourtiere do not include textured soy protein.

Don’t get me wrong – I like TSP when I’ve had it, especially in vegetable stir-fries.

It’s just… odd.

At least there’s no swarms of poly-syllabic chemical-preservative-like things lurking in this tourtiere. The ingredient list goes on to read: toasted wheat crumbs, salt, spice, dextrose, onion powder, garlic powder. Pastry: enriched wheat flour, lard, water, salt, calcium propionate. Glaze: water, enriched wheat flour, dextrose, milk ingredients, canola oil.

I know what all of that is. That’s rare, when I read ingredient lists. It usually depresses me. (Okay, the calcium propionate is a preservative, but it’s used in most bread products, and that’s just the pastry in this tourtiere. I’m amazed. I’m truly amazed.)

I have such an exciting life.

We went grocery shopping this morning at the new Loblaws in the neighbourhood. We took a tour through it before, a couple of weeks ago when it opened, but it was extremely crowded and we didn’t get a sense of much other than it was huge and had lots of food on the shelves. This morning (who goes grocery shopping at nine AM on a Friday? – except us, apparently) it was nice and empty, and we got a much better look at it. Apparently I have no life, because it was much too enjoyable. Exploring a new grocery store shouldn�t be this thrilling.

Finding a bag of half a dozen chicken legs for under two dollars shouldn�t be that exciting either. Sigh.

Neither should putting up a shelf in the kitchen so that I can move my teapot and basket of tea off the counter.

The second half of the two-part workshop I gave went rather well last night, to my relief. The last week of teaching has been horrible all around; let�s hope this signals a change for the better. I know everyone�s been tense, and as the holiday season approaches tension will only increase, but perhaps with a little more awareness of everyone�s limits, we can all get along, and survive until the end of December.

My back is better, thanks to an emergency trip to an athletic therapist while my osteopath is on vacation� just in time for the pain in my right wrist to flare up. Honestly, it feels like a conspiracy. This wrist pain was triggered by nothing I can think of, since it began to ache at Ceri�s birthday celebration on Wednesday night, and has proceeded to get more and more painful until I�m at the point where I can�t carry things in my hand, or open doors with it. My husband keeps telling me to stretch it, which hurts, so I resist doing it. When I do stretch, though, at least I gain mobility, and lessen the overall ache. I can type, oddly enough, if I make sure I don�t throw my hand too severely to the right to hit number keys or make too abrupt a mouse movement. Being able to type is a good thing since I have a half-complete newsletter to finish today. I wanted to get a new article done, too.

Stuart McLean tonight! Hurrah!

So Garak went to New York City last weekend, and he took some phenomenal photographs while he was there. My favourite from the set was the shot of old buildings reflected in a body of water, complete with a few strands of willow framing it. In Central Park, though, he took a photo just for me, which absolutely must make an appearance in the Owlyblog:

Thank you, Garak!

Happy birthday, Ceri, only one day late! (Although I think I can be excused for the lateness of the blog entry, seeing how I was with her in person for most of the day, yesterday…)

Stellar proof of Ceri’s generosity: she gave my husband and I tickets to go see Stuart McLean tomorrow night. On her own birthday, she gave these plums to us.

She rocks.

And she now has ass-kicking boots. Like a combination of something space-age, and something out of The Matrix. Fear her.

There are snickers coming from the bedroom. My husband is reading my NaNo novel.

“I finished The Philosopher’s Stone,” he said, walking into the living room just past twelve o’clock. “Can I… would you mind if I read your novel?”

“Ah…” I said. “No?”

He looked at me anxiously.

“If you want to edit it or rewrite it first -”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said. “I meant, no, I don’t mind. I think.”

He’s been reading it all afternoon. Every once in a while I hear a chuckle.

Me. The author of choice in my household right after J.K. Rowling. Before, possibly, since he had the choice between picking up the next book in her series, or my book.

It bodes well.