On the first day of Christmas, UC Davis said to me: “Congratulations, you owe use $1000.”
[dude, seriously: the bill was due 12/25.  And there was a nice long explanation of what and when, precisely, the debt collection agency would do to me if I was late]

On the second day of Christmas, the partner said to me: “Come to my office party.”

[this at a bar in San Francisco called Frisson.  There was a mountain of crab claws, a feast of oysters, sushi for days, and a raffle with prizes such as, oh, a pair of round-the-world tickets on Delta).

On the 3rd day of Christmas, I said to my partner: "Let's go to party #2."
[this with the folks from my office, at "a large state agency."  My raffle prize?  A bedazzler. Natch]

On the 4th day of Christmas, my partner said to me: “Let’s go to party #3.”
[this at the main library.  The food was quite good, the bar was open, the DJ fecking loud, and the after party?  At the Pine Cove.  In the immortal words of Sally Forth, this party wasn't just "fun," it was "burn the pictures" fun.]

On the 5th day of Christmas, I said to my partner: “Let’s go to party #4.”
[This was a drag show fundraiser for a local Democratic club.  Which involved such pieces of Baudrillardian brilliance as a talking martini: "Oh, that's so evil, Edietinie!  I just love it when you're bad!  Give us a kiss."  Smart drag in Sacramento -- who knew?]

On the 6th day of Christmas, we were caroled by Wiccans.
[Silly partner asked "are there any pagan hymns?"  Let's see, um: "The Holly and the Ivy," "Greensleeves," "Est is ein rose Entsprungen," "O Tannenbaum," shall I go on?]

On the 7th day of Christmas, I experienced a failure of commerce.
[I went book shopping at "a large chain store" with a faux-WASP name and discovered that the book I wanted -- which was listed in the New York Times Book Review three weeks ago as one of the "best books of 2007" -- was not only not in stock, they didn't know what the hell I was talking about]

On the 8th day of Christmas, my flight to MSP was delayed for ice.
[In Sacramento?  WTF?]

On the 9th day of Christmas, my parents said to me: “we’re headed to the Cape of Flattery.”
[Ah, yes, the standard-issue family vacation: driving 500 miles to go hiking on the beach.  In a storm.]

On the 10th day of Christmas, the partner and me interrogated his ex-girlfriend’s new main squeeze.
[Got that?  This over hot chocolate in the kitchen of his Bruce Wayne mansion.  Question by moi: So, how does a straight white man, raised Pentecostal in Ocala fecking Florida, end up a Democrat?  Bruce's answer: Well, that's why I left, see?  Judgement: Hm.  Evasive, but good enough for now.]

On the 11th day of Christmas, I redeemed my failure of commerce.
[It turns out that the _real_ place to go shopping for NYT-recommended books is, in fact, in the MSP airport bookstore.  I did not, for the record, visit the Larry Craig memorial bathroom]

And on the 12th day of Christmas, my employer said to me: “Congratulations, we’re yanking your direct deposit.”
[All I can say is, I better not find myself alone in a room with some rope, a ball gag, and a certain someone from HR]

Happy Near Year!  [What's the Cantonese for "Gung Hay Fat Drunk?"]

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