Most of my childhood is buried in a landfill somewhere near Houston. This is not a metaphor, but rather the sad outcome of foreclosure proceedings on my family's home when I was 12. When we left the white brick house, we moved into a rickety green wooden rental that slashed our living space in half. We took what we could carry in our vehicle -- mostly the necessities -- and left the rest behind. (When your home is being foreclosed, you generally can't afford a storage building.) But the house, and thereby everything in it, belonged to the bank, so they quietly and efficiently hauled off our belongings to a BFI landfill. Family and wedding photo albums, my mom's wedding dress, most of my and my brother's toys, our bronzed baby shoes that hung on the wall as proof of how far we'd come, a wall full of books, the majority of our family mementos and brick-a-brac. The junk that makes a house a home. I'm telling you this because of an angel named Gloria. Growing up,

Ah, Christmas - that special time of year when we jingle our bells, deck our halls, and throw all of our musical sensibilities out the window. Christmas albums mediocre and awful abound, featuring tired renditions of old favorites and new music that aims to be the next Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas Is You" but lands somewhere closer to Justin Beiber's rap-tastic "Drummer Boy." Some songs just rub people the wrong way. I've heard a lot of complaints about "I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas," for example. Other than the distinct possibility of being killed by a hippo, the song is kinda cute. I'd be interested in seeing how a child gives a hippo a massage in the garage, for example. Other people take issue with the violent nature of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." I don't have any problems with this one either; in fact, I agree with the statement that Santa Claus really shouldn't have a driver