I'm dreaming of a straitjacket*

I think I'm finally losing it.

Yesterday Mrs. RWP and I watched the 1954 film White Christmas on one of the movie channels, and more or less constantly ever since -- even upon waking up in the middle of the night and again this morning -- the final two lines from the song "Sisters" has been playing over and over in my head, in the voice of Rosemary Clooney singing harmony with herself:

Lord, help the mister who comes between me and my sister,
And Lord, help the sister who comes between me and my man.

I'm not even kidding. The really strange thing is I don't have a sister and, as God is my witness, I don't have a man.

I noticed in that movie that the character played by Bing Crosby is named Bob, and Bing's brother in real life was named Bob. Not only that, the character played by Rosemary Clooney is named Betty, and Rosemary's sister in real life was named Betty. I wonder if that was done on purpose or if it was purely coincidental.

I spotted the pre-West Side Story George Chakiris in there too as one of Rosemary's backup dancers. I am nothing if not observant.

Anyway, here it is two days before Christmas and our shopping and gift-wrapping is finally done. We didn't send out Christmas cards this year, so let me take this opportunity to thank Blogland friends Lowell and Peggy T. and Michelle and Ken J. (they will recognize themselves but the rest of you can just scratch your heads) for sending Christmas cards to us.

Mrs. RWP will be making two hashbrown casseroles to take to Christmas morning breakfast at our son's house one town over. Our daughter-in-law's mom and stepdad from Tennessee, our other son's family, and our daughter's family all the way from Alabamistan will be there too, 16 people in all. That last contingent will be spending a couple of days at our house afterwards before returning to the Land of Banjos of Mass Destruction.

Then Christmas will be over and everything will be back to what passes for normal.

I can only hope.

May you all have the merriest of Christmases, the happiest of Hanukkahs, and whatever else your hearts desire.

*not just like the ones I used to know, as I've never known any in my entire life. Just thought you ought to know.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit, bird thou never wert

Good morning, dear hearts and gentle people.

Just when I thought I was making progress, Shooting Parrots left the following comment on my previous post:

“You may be keeping up with the posts target, but your sentence ratio has just fallen dramatically.”

While what he says may be true, talk about raining on someone’s parade.

But that’s okay, D.H. and G.P., because I am a bigger person than to take umbrage over something so inconsequential in the overall scheme of things.

Speaking of which, contemplating the overall scheme of things (the past, the present, the future) can prove quite daunting, and some are better at it than others. I am certainly no Pollyanna, but I am not a doomsday prophet either. I prefer to listen to happy music from days gone by unencumbered by scenes of a post-apocalyptic future.

Alas, it was not to be. I found this clip (2:15). Bob Crosby is probably spinning in his grave. (For those of you who care about such things, bandleader and singer George Robert “Bob” Crosby (1913 - 1993) was the younger brother of singer Harry Lillis “Bing” Crosby (1903 - 1977).)

Nevertheless, and be that as it may, let us gird up our loins and march with confidence toward the Emerald City.

There. My sentence ratio is back on track, and my paragraph ratio has shown marked improvement.