Remember, a few days ago, when I was moping about book reviews and my bad marketing stamina and generally behaving all woe-is-me? Well, this morning I am here to humbly apologize for being such a goon.

If anyone were to make a B-level Hallmark Christmas movie about the happy endings of poets, they could borrow some plot ideas from me. Because yesterday, I for some reason clicked the Instagram icon on my laptop. I rarely post anything on Instagram and hardly ever even look at it, so I don't know what I was up to there, but in any case I floated onto the site and saw that I had a notification. Eh, someone wants me to friend their cute dog's page, I thought. But I clicked on the notification anyway, and when I did I discovered I'd been awarded a prize: Scoundrel Time's 2024 Editors' Choice Award in Poetry. Huh? To add to the confusing hilarity, I learned that my good friend, the novelist Tom Rayfiel, had been been awarded the nonfiction award, so of course I immediately emailed him and repeated Huh? and he promptly wrote back pretending that we would soon be swanning around at an imaginary gala in crushed velvet, so that was a fine, if startling, entry into the day.

And then, in the afternoon, I got an email from the poet Rebekah Wolman telling me she'd just published a review of Calendar . . . and what a review! . . . long, and detailed, and thoughtful, and generous. I am, as I told my friend Gretchen, gobsmacked. I feel like a cat after a nice long brushing: electric and purring and wild-eyed. I mean, what the heck? This kind of stuff never happens. Winning a prize that I didn't even apply for? Receiving such a dense and careful book review? This is Christmas right here, friends.

Anyway, I am sorry you had to listen to me groan last week, and I'd like to swear it will never happen again, but of course I am human, so it will. I tender my regrets in advance, and give you permission to slap me around a little (via rhymed couplets only, please) if I get out of hand again.

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Okay, now that the mea culpas are out of the way, let's talk about Christmas decorating. Christmas is basically a display of seasonal kitsch. I am a person who dislikes clutter and cutesy, so my approach to the season always strikes me as comic, because in December I am wholeheartedly devoted to sentimental knickknackery. Awkward little-boy-made ornaments, a rubber King Kong, strange styrofoam gingerbread men, a newspaper cut-out of Elvis, the nativity set my great-aunt Rose made in her ceramics class . . . all take pride of place. In about a week, the onslaught of stuff will be driving me nuts and I'll be desperate to pack it up again, but for the moment I am awash in delight with the silliness. Tomorrow our young people arrive, and so I am scrubbing candlesticks, assembling the candle chimes, setting votives in the windows. I'm not sure how my mind is working here: maybe This place needs to look like it's on fire is a form of parental affection. Whatever the case, I am having fun laughing at Christmas, and maybe you are too.