I usually shop in misses clothing departments, but Friday I wandered into the Nordstrom junior department to try on some cargo pants. I felt a little out of place in this obviously teen-targeted section of the store, and unintentionally found myself trying to play the part. When a sales clerk asked how I liked the pants, I heard myself say, “The pockets are, like, way too low.”

Where did that come from?

My top three books from this year’s reading:
(The first two were mostly for entertainment; the third was thought-provoking, with elements I continued to ponder months after finishing the book.)

Fifty Acres and a Poodle by Jeanne Marie Laskas
True story about a big-city career woman who takes up life on a farm

The Church Ladies by Lisa Samson
A surprisingly well-written novel in the Christian fiction genre

Soul Survivor by Philip Yancey
One of the most honest books I’ve ever read, about Yancey’s struggle to maintain his faith despite a series of disillusioning experiences. (The book is subtitled “How My Faith Survived the Church.”) The book profiles 13 believers who have had a profound impact on Yancey’s life and faith, including Leo Tolstoy, C. Everett Koop, G.K. Chesterton and Annie Dillard. Since I experienced my own disillusionment during years spent at a Christian college and then working for two Christian organizations, parts of Yancey’s book especially hit home for me.

As an English major and self-appointed member of the Grammar Police Force, I risk developing a facial tic each time I hear language transgressions such as “I literally laughed my head off” or “That’s very unique.” Though the modern-day use of “way” as a synonym for “much” hasn’t been recorded in official terms, I think a coworker’s comment that we would have “way enough” food at our office potluck would have to join my list of grammar infractions.

People seem to be more into political correctness this holiday season than ever before. My pastor called Directory Assistance a few days ago to ask for the number of a local Christian bookstore. The operator - who was apparently also a Christian - must have felt a little helpless when she ended the call by saying, “Legally, I can’t wish you a merry Christmas, so I’ll just say ‘Happy holidays.’” The day before Christmas, I kept hearing people carefully avoid any religious reference by wishing others “a great holiday.” So I thought it was interesting when I ran into a neighbor of a different faith this morning who came right out and asked, “Did you have a nice Christmas?”

My dad told us about a conversation he had with coworkers one holiday season in the 70s, when people took an anything-goes approach to Christmas trees. After they mentioned the different options available - artificial, flocked, aluminum - my dad said, “We’re thinking about getting a wooden tree.” One of the women looked surprised and said, “I’ve never heard of that kind” -- before she realized he was talking about the old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill variety.

I told someone yesterday that my favorite Christmas song (which tends to change from year to year) is “Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella.” It seems that few people know this one, though I think the tune would be familiar to most. Reactions of people I mention it to are interesting. One friend, apparently hearing only “torch” and “Isabella,” gave a look of mock alarm and said, “I feel sorry for Isabella.” Another laughed uncontrollably for at least half a minute. I still have no idea why.

Here are the words to the first verse, for those wishing to broaden their musical horizons:

Bring a torch, Jeanette, Isabella
Bring a torch, come swiftly and run
Christ is born, tell the folk of the village,
Jesus is sleeping in His cradle
Ah, ah, beautiful is the Mother;
Ah, ah, beautiful is her Son.

One of my coworkers has a cold, and updates me on that day’s symptoms each morning. Since I’ve just recovered from my own illness (along with half the Phoenix population), she ends each update by saying, “This is your fault.” What should I do? Send flowers? Tylenol? An amnesiac drug?

I’ve been reading Garrison Keilor’s Lake Wobegon Days, and ran across this description of lutefisk, a traditional food endured by Norwegians during the Christmas season: “dried cod soaked in lye solution for weeks to make a pale gelatinous substance beloved by all Norwegians, who nonetheless eat it only once a year.” Mmmmmmmmm. Makes fruitcake sound downright appetizing.

My office suite has had holiday snacks in one form or another - candy, cake, caramel popcorn - delivered almost daily for the past week and a half. Yesterday a 10-pound block of Ghirardelli chocolate turned up, courtesy of a printing company I work with it. We're trying to figure out what to do with it. Someone suggested using it for weightlifting. I thought we could try melting the surface just enough to create a collage of our handprints. One coworker volunteered to carry it nonchalantly through various work areas, nibbling on a corner as though it were his all-day snack. But in this age of supersizing, would anybody really be all that shocked at the sight?

I've been trying to find a copy of the ever-popular Seinfeld "Soup Nazi" episode for someone on my Christmas gift list. After learning that there are no Seinfeld collections available on video or DVD, I sent an e-mail to a few friends asking if anyone happened to have the episode on tape. One of the responses was appropriately abrupt: No tape for you.

Mountain Dew's Davey and Goliath commercial is too funny.

I signed up to help serve a holiday dinner to our night shift employees next Friday, from 11 pm until midnight. This may not have been the wisest decision, since I am not a night person. (Friends say they can see the color drain out of my face at precisely 9 pm.) But the dinner organizers were having trouble finding volunteers for the late shift, and I figured a half-asleep person at the egg nog station was probably better than nobody at all.

I have a cold, and haven't had a normal voice since last Friday. Last night I stopped by The Home Depot and almost ran into a woman on my way to the store entrance. I tried to say, “Excuse me,” but it came out in barely intelligible rasps, as though I’d been chain-smoking since infancy.

Now I’m in the last stages of the illness - the point where you no longer feel miserable, but an unexpected coughing fit could hit at any time. This happened several years ago when I was on a date with a man I didn’t know very well. It hit as we were on our way to a movie: the sort of cough that leaves you unable to speak and certainly unable to stop - even if your life (or, in this case, your dignity) depends on it. I assumed he would sense my desperate need of water and pull into a fast-food drive-through. Instead, he went right on talking as though I were sitting in my seat nodding and smiling pleasantly, instead of hacking and gasping for air. It was as though he were unaware of anything except his own conversation. I wonder if he realized that our date finally ended and I left the car and went inside. For all I know, he may still be sitting in his car, chattering away....

I had to work Saturday, so I lost a valuable Christmas shopping day. This is a problem, because it takes me forever to shop for gifts. Maybe I should consider doing away with my current pattern of gift-buying, which consists of: Buy a gift for someone, buy something for myself, buy another gift, buy something for myself....

My checking and savings account are at a credit union. Is it correct to say that I “bank” at a credit union? Or do I “credit union” there?

For a man's point of view on weddings, check out Russ's site.