Home sweet home.

Today is our houseiversary. One year ago today, My Guy and I took on our 1938 stone cottage.

Sounds quaint, right? Except that it was a repo. That had been owned by a druggie who trashed it before losing it to the bank.

Now, we live in a historic district. But our history with this house includes finding a petrified bowl of rice and beans in a bathroom drawer. And causing water damage by assuming the water line to the where a fridge once stood was, you know, actually turned off by the former owner. Ha ha ha!

We've cleaned like we've never cleaned before. We've painted pretty much every surface. And yet, I still feel the need to apologize to our neighbors for the state of our house, like we're causing home values to go down. Some of our shrubs are dead. We still don't have use of the second floor.

But I stinkin' love this house.

It's going to be our home for a very long time. I see the potential here, and I'm thankful that this house feels like our home. Even the stuff that I thought would drive me crazy - like the broken granite counter top - feels pretty OK. This house is teaching me that life doesn't have to be perfect to be ... perfect.

And to all, a good night. With no more barfing.

We made it to Iowa - healthy-ish and safe. It's a Christmas miracle!

In celebration, I offer you a holiday tradition, with a new twist this year. Enjoy, my friends!

All I want for Christmas is not to barf.

My Guy woke up in the middle of the night with what is either food poisoning or the flu. He's been down for the count all day. Like, "I don't feel well enough to sit up" down for the count.

It's December 23.

We're supposed to go to Iowa tomorrow.

I don't want to sleep in our bed because I sure as hell don't want to get sick.

I don't want to miss Christmas with my family.

I don't want my husband to be sick.

I want my husband to take a shower. For the love of all that is holy.

I don't ask much.

From our house to yours.

This year, I'm proud to continue my tradition of not sending out Christmas cards.

I know, I know. But this is a hectic time at Corporate Behemoth and the idea of one more thing to do makes me crazy.

I've noticed that fewer folks send them out. I blame Facebook. Or maybe I'm just not getting cards anymore because I don't send cards.

But don't worry - just because I don't send cards doesn't mean that I don't criticize cards.

I'm just gonna get right down to it. My Aunt Talbot has sent cards for the last three years that feature a picture of her house on the front. No people, just a house.

It's a big house. A big, fancy house that could easily pass for a sorority house. The first year, it was just, you know, the house. The second year, it was the house with a light dusting of snow - obviously taken before that dust burned off with the sun of the day. But this year? This year, it's a pic from last Christmas, where the house is covered in snow, swathed in Christmas greenery and lit from within by every light in the place. This year's photo also features a photo credit.

I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be impressed, or at least warmed in a Norman Rockwell sort of way. But mostly, I'm just annoyed. Seriously, lady. Show me your adorable and numerous grandkids. I'm not impressed by your big ol' house. So quit trying.

I guess it's not quite as egregious as the cards that used to come from my mom's stepsister. She'd always misspell my mom's name on a letter that told of skiing in Aspen and flying to Gstaad as her husband received some hoity-toity cardiologist award.

Gstaad. I'm not even exaggerating.

At least I can be certain that my noncard isn't misspelling people's names or coming off as too showy.

Know your limits. And when to go home and have a drink.

There are a lot of Indian guys who work in my area at Corporate Behemoth. Most of them are contractors who come over from India for a year or 18 months, then go back home. These are smart guys who know a minimum of 3 languages and then immerse themselves in this weird culture away from their families. I have a lot of respect for them.

That said, there are some cultural differences that are funny, annoying, or supremely horrific.

Horrific? The thinly veiled contempt for women.

Annoying? The tendency to send an e-mail, then come over to my desk to announce you've sent me an e-mail. Or, the tendency to skip sending me an e-mail, but instead come over to my desk and expect me to drop everything and edit something for them on the fly. Because, after all, I am only a woman.

But the funny?

Oh, sister.

There's this one guy who is so young and clean-cut and adorable. He makes me feel old because instead of wanting to get on him, I have an overwhelming desire to make him a sandwich.

I guess this is what middle age feels like.

Anyway, today? Today, Young and Clean-Cut mentioned that he and some of his cohorts are planning a road trip for the long Christmas weekend. They are generally really excited to see everything they can in America - so, they've seen more of the country than many natives. Their Christmas destination? Mount Rushmore.

Oh, Young and Clean-Cut. You're gonna need more than a sandwich.

A bunch of folks were trying to convince Young and Clean-Cut and his posse that there are other, more suitable destinations for the end of December. His initial response was, "But, the Internet says it's sunny right now!"

The guys were being redirected to maybe San Antonio or maybe New Orleans. But then, Fannypack Bruce stepped in.

Maybe you know Fannypack Bruce. He's the older guy who does testing but asks 27 questions an hour. He keeps two Igloo coolers on his desk and wears a fannypack 24-7. And the fannypack strap has a phone clipped to it. You know, to complete the look.

Fannypack Bruce always has something to add. In detail. And today? His addition was a long diatribe about "a swell KOA near Mount Rushmore."

Camping? Most of these guys don't own winter coats but consider anything colder than 50 degrees arctic conditions. Focus, Fannypack Bruce! Stay on message!

That was about the time I left. I can only do so much.

The sun ain't gonna shine anymore.

Life as I know it is over. Oh-ver.

When I was in third grade, my dad gave me a clock radio for Christmas. It has two alarms, buttons I know by feel, and SIMULATED WOOD GRAIN.

The best part? It has a label on the top that says "SIMULATED WOOD GRAIN." You know, lest someone mistake it for real wood and try to use it as kindling.

We've been together for, umm, 28 years.

And now? My clock radio is ailing.

A few months ago, the clock gained about 20 minutes a day. I unplugged it, said a little prayer, and plugged it back in. All better.

But this weekend? This weekend, it was keeping double time. As in, it gained 12 hours a day.

As someone who likes to be places sort of on time and who is also in no way a morning person, this is a problem.

I did the ol' unplug / prayer combo again, and so far, it seems to be working. However, I can't deny it: my simulated wood grain pal is in hospice care. Our time is growing thin.

I am devastated. Did I mention that I can program this sucka by feel? And that we've been together longer than most marriages?

I was willing to be brave and look for a new clock radio. Except ... they are all horrible. I'm willing to forgo SIMULATED WOOD GRAIN, but I need a radio because a straight-up alarm freaks me out. I need a digital display because I'm blind. And I need buttons that I can aspire to operate by feel. I do not need to dock the iPod that I don't have. And I don't need to project the time onto the wall in giganto size.

So, there are some OK alarm clocks out there. But none of them are Just Right. None of them are my alarm clock. I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm truly sad about this. I guess you don't just break up with someone after 28 years without some sort of angst.

Do you have an alarm clock you love? What's it like? I'm taking suggestions.

And yes, I realize this is totally a first-world problem.

Calling Dr. Atkins. And Cesar Milan.

So, My guy is back from his work trip - and not a moment too soon.

I don't mean to be all old-school patriarchal and "Just wait until your father gets home!" But duuuuuuude.

I stayed up late one night making My Guy a birthday cake. He wanted a caramel cake with canned caramel frosting. I could do so much better, but if the birthday boy wants boxed cake with canned frosting, that's what he's gonna get.

The next day when he got home, he sent me a few really random texts:

"I'm so sorry."

"Like 3 inches of cake left."

I thought he got home and ate the cake. But no. The labradoodles had catapulted onto the kitchen counter and scored the birthday cake. The 2-layer birthday cake that was at the very way-back of the counter.

All gone.

It had been a really, really long day, but I stopped at the store on my way home. They had another caramel cake mix, but not caramel frosting. I guessed German chocolate frosting was as close as I could get, and I ran to the express lane.

There was one lady in front of me. She wrote a check.

By the time I got home, I threw the cake mix at My Guy. "It's not the cake you want, but I did just beat an old lady to death with this box."

We went out for dinner and delayed the cake redux.

The next day, the labradoodles got into the bread drawer. They ate an entire loaf of 8-grain bread, 3 hamburger buns, half a bag of pretzels, and half a bag of Tostitos.

There was vomit. And wrapping. Everywhere.

So, we've got some dogs that need to cut out the carbs. And the assholery.

Yeah, it's a word.

The 1 upside? We didn't have a star on our Christmas tree. Now, there's a lovely Tostitos bag shard adorning the top of the tree.

We have the only house on the block that doesn't have Christmas lights. If our neighbors only knew the level of classiness inside ...