I am not a morning person. Throughout the week, I begin my days very slowly and gracelessly by getting out of bed and channeling Helen Keller as I make my way to the coffee pot — both eyes crusted shut — trying not to step on a dog, cat or husband.
When people speak of fruit salad I’m haunted by memories of those awful, slimy cups of peeled grapes and other indistinguishable fruit that the lunch lady, Linda, would thrust at me in elementary school.
It’s that magical time of year again, where there’s a chill in the air, a tree in the den, and a perpetually-dwindling bottle of scotch on the counter to match the disappearing anti-depressants in the medicine cabinet. (Thank the baby Jesus for THAT cocktail.)