Best highlights for the day

("Best highlights for the day" is to be said in a Little Edie accent, naturally. "Mother wanted me to come out in a kimono so we had quite a fight.)

I got inspired by the fact that the hilarious Janet Bertolus posts on her blog every day! Holy shit! I don’t know if I can do that. But I can post today. That’s something.

I have enjoyed today thus far because it was spent with people I like doing and eating things I like. Here are some of those things:

•Writing a song with Abby and Emily and Brent in which we sing happy holidays to and from Somerville — from Davis Square to Winter Hill.
•Monte Cristo sandwiches with the Taylors on our electric griddle with chicory coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon.
•Michelle dropping off a beautiful Christmas wreath she made in New Jersey for us.
•Porchetta from Pepe Bocca.
•Morning yoga and morning pages in my favorite sunny spot in the loft.
•Taking a walk by the river in the sun with the Taylors.
•Seeing the big wreaths with the adorable faux partly-peeled apples at the Charles Hotel.
•Demi dark drinking chocolate at LA Burdick’s on Brattle Street — totes decadent.
•Coziness.
•Sending my Christmas list email to Brent (yes, it includes a caftan. I’ve been eyeing it since summer).
•Talking about not taking stuff personally.
•Listening to Brent try out his new delay pedal, which does so much more than make you sound like The Edge.
•About to eat takeout from Dumpling House and realizing a place right up the street from us has wok-cooked crawfish. In Cambridge. WT-ever-loving-F!?

This is the best thing to wear for the day. (Yes, a heating pad, because too much Chaturanga Dandasana into poorly-aligned Bellyflop-asana.)

Update: THE CRAWFISH WERE AWESOME. Now you know. Carry on.

Yeah, I don't think I can post every day. You don't want to hear about my consumption of mudbugs. Or maybe that's what they mean when they say "You just haven't found the right person yet." Nah, I've known some guys (not many, mind you, but a couple) who were overly-fascinated with me who might hang on my every head-suck. (What? I'm talking crawfish, sicko!) That energy created a decidedly (Groucho) Marxist "I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member"-type situation.