So far, my longest term employer is still this one, a retail store where I hid out for the better part of the nineties, through one college diploma and one baby and seven horrifying holiday seasons.

It was a job; it paid a few bills, or part of them, and I know I gained valuable  experience, perhaps not so much from the job, but from the people and the friendships made that still endure.

What I internalized forever was the unkindness of people during the holidays; the bad attitudes, crabby parents, sobbing kids, self-important shoppers shoving their way through retail stores with unrealistic expectations as their guide. It made me despise Christmas and it was a good number of years before I worked my way back to enjoying the sound of a carol or could give in to experiencing holiday cheer.

It’s still fresh enough for me to not work on Christmas Eve.  Although “work” was a day of little accomplishment during eight hour shifts on Dec. 24. I’m still marveling at the break I’ll have between Christmas and New Year’s, a luxury I do not take for granted.

The boy will work his first Christmas Eve in the retail world this year. Because he has a better view of his future than I did during my retail years, I’m sure it will be more enjoyable, less drudgery for him. My hope is that something makes it special, like he’s part of the whole Santa scramble as parents hit the store for last minute gifts. And I hope they’re all kind.

A friend told me about an interview candidate she faced across her desk recently. The candidate, a young woman, appeared to have cosmetically enhanced or very unnaturally large lips. As a young woman candidate, I suspected this or this or products like it, rather than surgical alteration.

Here’s a tip for interviewees: leave the lip plumping products out of the interview process. Save the stuff for dates and after hours events. Now, if you look an awful lot like Angelina Jolie and can’t help that you have large, luscious, pouty lips naturally, consider acting.

Oh, and steer clear of my husband.

I’ve endured and celebrated many types of holiday parties from the somewhat sad lunch affair, exchanging gifts around a table in a cramped conference room to the overly opulent bash at the boss’s “show home,” an event that left us even more dissatisfied with our salaries and the lack of a year-end bonus.

There was the corporate “Celebration of Success,” a dressy deal in a hotel ballroom where drink tickets were doled out with the same generosity as time off. Every year we went and ate the tasteless chicken dish, watched the uninspired slide show, whether there had been success to celebrate, or not.

Some companies invite spouses; others do not. Some parties send you away with corporate swag, others send you home with the promise of a hangover.

What’s important to know is that going or not is a career choice. Of course not all companies or employees see it this way, but many do, and if you’re unknowingly doing your career path damage by skipping out on the (however lame, however tasteless) holiday to-do, consider this your heads-up. Make an appearance, however painful. It’s better than being remembered in the staff meeting as the “one who wasn’t there.” Who knows? You might actually have a great time.

I made cranberry orange muffins for breakfast. I was then informed by my household that no one but me likes them.

“Why? WHY?” said the boy, “did you make these when there’s a whole rainbow of other muffins you could have made that we would have liked.”

Her name was Helen Higgins but everybody called her Granny Hig. My dad called her simply, “Hig.” To many of us, she was Granny or Gran.

My grandmother lived in an apartment on the lower level of my Aunt Joan’s house. My memory of that apartment has begun to fade. I recall a blue room, a white chenille bedspread and the view from her window. In the livingroom hung pictures of the men in her life; John Wayne, large, and Jesus Christ, small.

In later years she recovered her couch with a wild animal print and by that I do not mean leopard or zebra, rather a print with lions and tigers on it. I like to think it reflected her wild streak.

She liked to drive and had a particular habit of clicking the fingernails on her left hand together as she steered. She named her cars; Flash is one I remember. Her purse, which she called a pocketbook, was huge and white and contained tissues, lipstick and Lifesavers. An overloaded passenger, it sat beside her on the seat of the car.

When she scolded us, which wasn’t often, she used our middle names; “Jaimee Lynn! Jan Elizabeth! Brock Matthew!” The more often I got in trouble alongside a particular cousin, the more likely I am to remember or know his or her middle name.

In the summers, she would don a swimsuit with a skirt, a swimcap and drugstore flipflops to walk to the backyard pool. Her toenails were painted red. She swam laps before the young kids were up and about. For three winters in a row, my family brought her to Florida with us and it was there my Granny taught me how to swim. We’d float on our backs, I in my Winnie-the-Pooh or Snoopy swimsuit and she in her swimcap, basking in the tropical sun. She was unendingly patient, and is the reason I know how to swim.

Christmas was her season. Her apartment became a Christmas village and Santa’s workshop all together. She shopped the year ’round and by the time the holidays arrived her apartment was heaped high with wrapped gifts, some of them from Santa. There were gifts for her three daughters, her son and their spouses, many grandchildren and a few great-grandchildren.

She didn’t have much, but always made us feel spoiled. She was resourceful, saving holiday cards from one year to cut up and create gift tags for the next. When she shopped, if she found something she liked for one of us, all the girls would get one. I know for a fact that at least two of my cousins and I have the same jewelry box to this day.

It is of my Granny that I think each year as I pack boxes to ship, wrap gifts and make out cards. She was so kind, generous and thoughtful, giving everyone a bit of herself in each gift.

So this year, my gift to you is a glimpse of my Granny. She was as much Santa as there ever was, and we all miss her this holiday season.

• Fortel’s (ah, the spicy cheese) we were devastated when the den by our house closed unexpectedly, frozen in our tracks on a Friday night without any recollection of what other pizza existed out there
• Imo’s — the square beyond compare — (sometimes referred to as “cracker pizza” and not just because of the extremely thin crust)
• Cecil Whittaker’s (also a provel cheese pizza; an acquired taste. Good salads, too.)
• Shakespeare’s (it’s a short drive from St. Charles!)

So far, I haven’t found a Charlottesville pizza I love. I find this shocking. Shouldn’t a college town have a killer pizza joint? We haven’t found it. And no, I’m not driving to Crozet every time I want good pizza.

When we moved from St. Louis to Charlottesville almost a year ago, everyone worried about the boy. He’s a teenager, and was in the middle of his sophomore year when the moving van arrived for our stuff. School and social re-integration weighed heavily on our minds.

But the girl? Nobody worried about the girl. She’s so darn outgoing and was, after all, a third grader where life is totally fluid.

So here we are, 49 weeks later and THIS is how they’re doing:

The boy: straight As with the recent progress report AND gainfully employed by a major national retailer making more than minimum; less than living, wage. He looks awesome in his red shirt and khakis.

The girl: TODAY, given a LEAD part in the school play! As a fourth grader in elementary school, this is a real coup. She’ll be singing and delivering lines as Sacajawea (do you KNOW how many alternate spellings there are for this?).

We’re very excited for both of them and relieved, Oh. So. Relieved. As we discovered, and you may already know, moving kids across the country has to be one of the more stress-inducing endeavors, ever.

Heck, yeah, I’m a lot of fun this week. I think it’s the approaching holiday, knowing I will not be spending it with relatives beyond my immediate family. Maybe it’s friends I want to be with that I know I won’t see until February, at least. Maybe it’s just that, too. I don’t have plans to travel back to St. Louis until February. That’s three months of being away — the longest stretch since we moved nearly a year ago. Yes, I’m officially homesick, but more than that, peoplesick. I miss my sisters, my parents and my friends. My friend Judy’s dog had to be put to sleep and it will be almost three months before I can give her a consoling hug. By then, she may have a new puppy.

I’ve gotta stop reading so much St. Louis news, I think, but because of my job, I have to stay connected and read what I can. It’s hard, though, and only makes me miss that town all the more. Even stories of power outages, the ice storm and terrible traffic have me sighing and remembering the past.

It’s crazy, I know, and it will pass. I’m just having a tough week, I think.

My friend Jen has started a blog, a great way to stay connected with another St. Louis friend. She and her husband moved to Tucson several months ago and now, are looking for a way back to the midwest. They may end up back in the ‘Lou, or in Ohio. Ohio, as Mark pointed out, would be closer to us. St. Louis would mean a chance to see them when we visit.

Other friends are mid-exodus, making the move with four children from St. Louis to Oklahoma. We’ve all scattered across the U.S. I’m sure I’m not the only one feeling a bit anxious and sad moving into this holiday season.

Lost: one sense of humor; dark and occasionally caustic. Dry with lots of statement of the obvious. Tonight, I can’t even begin to find the funny, be the funny. I’m angry; I’m anger personified.

A friend of mine is sick. She’s been sick for quite some time. She’s also younger than I am, and I’m a mere slip of a girl at 36. She’s been, for years now, the kind of sick that’s almost invisible. She seemed fine, looked fine, sounded fine; it was hard to tell what was working away inside. I remember when my brother-in-law had lymphoma, it was the same way. Tough to tell; impossible to accept.

My friend has been having a rough year and no longer looks or sounds fine. It’s wearing her down. She’s tired of illness, research, talking about options, taking meds and dealing with this beast that will not leave her alone. She’s sick enough that I need to try to not make her laugh, so I don’t cause her more pain.

Today my thoughts of her have filled every gap between other thoughts, words and actions. I miss her, because she lives 800 miles away. I feel helpless because I can’t help her in all the normal, little ways that friends who live in the same town can. She’s as stubborn as a crotchety old lady and can turn a conversation around, evading questions, slick as a born politician. Tonight we talked and I tried to swallow my anger for a bit, tried to channel the positive energy, tried to make her feel better somehow. I’m angry out of frustration and completely pissed off at this disease that has already taken one young person from our lives.

So I’m on humor hiatus for a bit, biting my lip, wiping tears and trying to be positive, productive, etc. I love my friend; I hate cancer.

If you haven’t heard, St. Louis suffered an ice storm that began last Thursday. More than half a million in the region were and have been without power.

Dana posted and took some great photos, despite the lack of electricity. 

The home office of my firm was even closed on Friday, due to the unsafe driving conditions.   

It became a business advantage to have the two of us who work from home full time, in Portland, Ore. and here, in Charlottesville, Va. online, on the server, and working away on Friday in our disaster-free locales.

A thought to consider for employers resistant to allowing employees to work at home. Sometimes, it’s necessary, and an advantage when disasters occur. And they will. Oh, they will.