There is a naked Christmas tree sitting in our living room. Buck naked. Not even a string of lights to hide its prickly bits. I’d post a picture, but my blog might be considered to have mature content if I did. So use your imagination.

Normally by this time on the Sunday after Thanksgiving the tree would at least have lights. Instead of stringing lights and hanging ornaments, I’m sitting on the sofa with a notebook computer on my lap and a glass of wine at my side.

Besides a naked tree, the room also boasts boxes and boxes and boxes of Christmas paraphanalia. We started puting the decorations around the house, but there’s a Steeler’s game on — the guys are watching that. Clare’s in the middle of a good book. And I have my wine.

Tomorrow is another day.