Cocoa Couture

This is crazy. I don't know what to make of it. My mind can't grasp the idea of $350 couture chocolate. Just, no.

Also, there's a new kid in purgatory. Go see. I guarantee you'll have something to think about for the rest of the day that's worth the time it takes to load.

I'm having fun Christmas shopping this year, because I have both the money and the inclination for the first time in six years. For the first time in my adult life, really. Life post-Oscar is 100% easier. This year, after six years of stressful holidays, I have nothing to worry about but generic seasonal concerns like shopping and parties and where I'm going to spend vacation days and dropping hefty hints. It's glorious. There are no more power struggles in my personal life, no more get-rich-quick schemes, no more repercussions from somebody else's irresponsibility and drug addiction and selfishness, no more of his lowlife friends and relatives, and no more fear when the phone rings. There's nobody but me, and I like it completely. The other people in my life who had to suffer along with me throughout that relationship seem to have forgotten and forgiven me completely, and for that I'm eternally grateful.

I was perusing the Kemmerer paper today and spotted a baby obituary. Those are always morbidly fascinating to me; they make me think of the sadly sensational lives of Charles and Anne Lindbergh. I got to reading and discovered the 16-month-old boy was the child of my grade-school archnemesis. The baby died at Primary Children's Hospital in Salt Lake of complications from surgery to remove both his diseased kidneys. Now, as I remember her, this person didn't have the normal scope of emotions, so I have a hard time imagining that she's suffering the way a woman with any maternal instinct would. I realize that's a sick statement, and in a way I hope I'm wrong and she's grown up and got a soul, even though it would mean she suffers more. It just goes to show you how very, very long I can nurse a wicked grudge. Before you jump on me about my inhumanity, though, let me tell you that people who've known her since she last treated me like crap speculate that her consistent prenatal recreational drug use may be to blame for the baby's illness. And that, to me, is inexcusably inhumane.

Another kindergarten Christmas program was endured/enjoyed tonight, and it was simply darling. Six-year-old Bitsy, slightly big for her age, with her perfect Claudia-the-beautiful-child-vampire ringlets, pink cheeks and pink satin ball gown was a complete angel. She always looks like an angel, really, until she opens her mouth. At one point our little blonde aspiring star was enthusiastically bouncing away, out of time with the campy Christmas tune, and her mother leaned over to where Morgan and I were doubled over laughing, and, wiping her eyes, said "oh Lord, my child's got no groove!" All we could do was agree.