My darling friend Jerusalem posted a photo this weekend of her 13th and final arrangement of her mantle for Christmas. I am in awe of her. That is not sarcasm. I really admire her attention to detail when it comes to making her home lovely.
Just thinking about decorating the rent house made me tired. You gotta drive over to the broke house, dig around in the attic, pull out the Christmas boxes, pack them in the Subaru, drive them over to the rent house, set the crap up, then two weeks later you have to break it down and take it back. Now you’re tired too, aren’t you?
So this weekend, we broke down and did the deed. In the haul, Charlie grabbed the box which had the remnants of last year’s craftastrophe. He mocks me.
In years past, I have been fanatical about making sure the tree was perfect. Ornaments had to be placed properly, with exact spacing, in measured sparkle per branch. This year, I threw a bunch of glitter shiz up on the tree and called it good. Oddly, it looks pretty much the same.
None of the perfection much matters to Monkey Boy. He’s losing his mind about Santa coming to see him. I’ve told him if he doesn’t settle down, he’s gonna end up with socks and underpants. He howls with laughter at such a suggestion. Santa would NEVER bring such mundane things. He has no idea.
I’ve been wrong about several things already this season. First, Monkey Boy is not annoyed we don’t live in our house at Christmas. He’s getting toys, so that’s all that matters to him. The location issue is strictly a parental one.
Also, the two weeks I thought would not be so fast as to not be worth the hassle will be like slow motion. Monkey Boy already can’t sleep he’s so excited about Christmas. It’s gonna be a long 13 days from now. Very long.