12.09.03 - 9:54 p.m.

The tree. It's in the house. At this very moment, I'm sitting in our reconfigured living room happily sniffing the piney scent wafting through the air, tracking random pine needles that escaped the watchful dustpan broom through the house and waiting for it to settle in and open its branches a few inches more so we can string it with muthafuckin' lights. Aight!

I have no idea why I lapse into ghetto-speak so often. I find it really does happen a lot -- mostly in my entries. In real life, I speak more like a cross-pollination of the sea turtles from Finding Nemo and an excited TRL participant. Only with a little more intelligence, I hope. Anyway. Apparently my diary is a misguided gang member from Beverly Hills, much like that damnable Jamie Kennedy character B-Rad.

So we have the tree, and we discovered that paying only $10 more for a tree gets us a much sturdier one than that which we dragged up the stairs last year, and possibly one that won't fall down unexpectedly for me to find corpselike on the floor after work. One hopes.

And I had a tres strong gimlet before/with dinner, and I am just about ready to hit the sack. And it's not even Queer Eye time yet! Lord, I am such a lush.