I can't fight this feeling anymore.

Post-fire last night, I didn't actually go to bed, nor did I fall into a coma, unfortunately.

Instead, I sat and tried doing the only thing that used to make me happy no matter what: Writing up a Christmas wish list.

But you know, I realize how much different ... how "married" I've gotten. It just wasn't "rainbows, unicorns and happy faces" fun anymore. Instead of CDs and movies, I was dismayed at first over my own desire to add "shovel" and "dish towels" to the list.

Suddenly, it's not fun and frivolous. It's all house-related and boring.

When I was younger, trying to keep my tired eyes open during the adult gift exchanges at Grandma's house was torture. An uncle and aunt would get pillows. Another would open and feign surprise in some tools. One got a toaster.

I mean, we're talking about stuff that now appeals to me.

So why fight it, I concluded.

I just added "garden tools" and "a small wastebasket" to the list.