When my parents put up the Christmas decorations, oh me oh my, we’d all hightail it out of The Homestead. It was STEEEEEEEEEEEEEEressful. When I got older, I’d work the whole dang day just to have a good excuse not to be around for the disagreements and general crabbiness.
I am not like that. I am calm.
Until it is time to put away the decorations. Not only do I put them away, I organize them, organize the house, clean the house, and get my decorating mojo into gear. I want to redo the whole place, and if The Big Daddy would just leave for a spell, I’d get in the car and go buy new furniture to surprise him. I surround myself with chaos and don’t know what the hell I’m doing. If you ask to help me I say that’s o.k. I’m not sure what I’ve got going here. Then when you walk away I talk about how frickin lazy you are behind your back, and your back may have not left the room. Oh, I’m a post-holiday delight for sure.
This is some of Christmas puked up on the dining room table. The basement? Oh my God. Even worse. It took me the whole day to get it together and when I was done The Teacher Girl stopped by and walked through the spotlessly clean house with dog crap on her shoe.
Next year? Old people Christmas. Puny tree on a table in the front window that smells like moth balls, and I’m pretty sure I’m o.k. with that.
