You see how the icicles practically touch the ground? Quite the tableau, I'd say, and makes you that more appreciative of the toasty fire. Nice way to decompress from the work-week, sitting by the stove and enjoying a poor man's latte.

Here's an odd development: I have a black eye and Cara didn't even punch me or anything. What gives? Am I being jabbed by some phantom boxer? Was I so wiped out from those mountain climbers that I fell on my thumb? The body breaks down with no provocation; but what's a bloke to do? I wish my family had stayed in England--then I could call myself a bloke without sounding like a poseur.

Haven't heard from my brother or my sister this week, and I seem to miss them more every weekend. There used to be a tape of Max and me speaking to each other with our little British accents--how I wish that hadn't got lost to the tides. Now Judy has given us a tape of Jessie reading a book when she was about six years old. I haven't listened to it yet, but I'm pretty sure it will set off a paroxysm of bittersweet tears.

Soon it will be Christmas and I'll have my three beautiful cuddly children home around the artificial pink shag tree I'm moments away from purchasing from Amazon.com--marked down to $34.95 from 99 dollars. And free shipping!

It's good to be kitcshy... in moderation.