Quaintity, Not Quantity

I'm sitting in church now, and I'm early.
Better than being in a church late, I suppose.
Strapped for loved ones, my Aunt Barb picked me up today and brought me to her home.
It's off the beaten GPS, but it's around here:

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There are herons sometimes. It's a lovely place to visit.
Sipping beer and espying faraway seals with the telescope, I can pretend to be rich.
Pretending to be rich is great.
All of us have been there before (except the welfare crowd).
Be it a weekend of house sitting for the neighbor who owns Wendy's, or staying in a dying uncle's haunted mansion, we've all wandered into hot tubs that are not ours.
It's great. The ease and comfort, though temporary, can elucidate us to the benefits of hard work or a (suspiciously) timely inheritance.

Being Christmas Eve, I'm supposed to talk about Jesus and the donkeys and the angel swarms.
Overdone.
I'm not making the same jokes about frankincense and mermaids for the sake of a calendar date.
Really, I can't wax Christmastime because it feels very little like the holiday.
Perhaps because I've already given my gifts.
Maybe it's because I was too busy during the days leading up and I didn't have a paper chain.

I probably just miss my mom.
I may have said this already, but if I ever had to go to jail, I'd make a paper chain that would count down to my release date.
All mothers in a church smell the same.

I went to PEI for a few days in order to try and charm a family.
Not sure it worked.
Nevertheless! I spent some quality time with some toddler-esque girls, listened to some Dora, enjoyed a meal with 30 strangers in 90-degree heat, and learned some more about the woman I love.
Mostly, where she gets her cheekbones and explosively violent temper.
It's a nice enough province,  but that frigging red clay gets over everything.
You feel a little Ochre by the time you're ready to leave.
The girl in the pew behind me has to go poop.
Andie's nieces were really charming, even when they were making lots of noise at what must have been 6 a.m.
One of them was clothed in front of me, and then she was suddenly nude.
The freedom.
This church is too cold.
I'm not sure The Book of Common Prayer is relevant, but it makes a fine table.
The little piece of paper with reader responses ("And also with you") is also useful, at least as scrap paper.
The sheet is almost out of room, but I'll say this:
I think PEI is too quaint.
No place should be so wholesome.
It's charming and beautiful - to a point.
But every shop front is old timey.
Every turned corner reveals more flawless rolling hills.
The province's facade is a Stepford Wife.
It's very tough to trust.
You feel like you must be getting duped somehow.
Time will tell on that one.
Either way, put out the carrots and Starbucks gift cards.
Santa's coming.
And to you and yours, have a great Christmas, free of malice and vomiting.

My pick for 2012's Hymn of the Year:
Good King Wenceslas.
Very well-written.
I know that Away in a Manger was a contender - maybe even your pick.
But, really, that hymn is only popular because it's adorable when a group of five-year olds sing it.