Bing is singing “I’m Dreaming of a Whiiiiiite Christmas….” as I pull the last batch of Christmas cookies out of the oven. We’re trying to get in the spirit, sans snow. I’m singing along badly, happily, and spatula-ing cookies onto cooling racks. I have our red and green oven mitts my mom crocheted for us. Our tree is decorated, our Creche’s are out: both Conservative Hetero and Broadway Production Gay. Really. You can’t look at it without expecting Joseph to break into a show tune belting out his joy for Jesus. Don’t even ask about the wise men. More jewels than Elizabeth Taylor.
And alas rain, not snow, is falling. Oh well. It’s not going to be a white Christmas for us. I think I’m coming down with a bug. I’m relieved that everything is nearly done so I can go to bed with a nice hot mug of tea and a good book. Just have to get the icing together for the cookies.
The Christmas Present (can we just call him Christmas now that you know him?) is prescient. Christmas is sitting, at any given moment, exactly where your feet need to be. Amazing. He is especially fond of laying down right in front of the sink. Okay, I can work around that. I turn around and start to gather icing supplies, and right where my feet were just about to land, Christmas is sitting, looking innocently up at me.
How…? Wait…. Wasn’t he just over there? I didn’t see him move. Do we have an apparating dog? When he chewed up Harry Potter , did he ingest a Fred and George joke page? I slide over to avoid tripping, and look down again just to make sure he’s where I left him. Yup.
BTW, this is NOT what a pack leader does. A pack leader points her finger in the direction of the living room and says “Out. Now” Somehow Singing and Pack Leader cancel each other out energetically. I sound very happy when I yell: “Out. NOW.” That’s not supposed to happen. It’s a mixed message. I’m tired. I’m fighting a sniffle. I don’t have any energy to un-mix my message. See previous post stating how stupid we are around our dogs.
Christmas stays in the kitchen. Fine. I turn around to the sink while opening the powdered sugar, and bingo Christmas is sitting right where my feet were just going to land. How does he DO that? Unfortunately, I’m not able to abort the foot moving process. I trip. There’s a big commotion, but no one gets hurt.
My wife says from the living room, “Honey, is everything okay in there?”
I look around me in amusement. Everything is fine. There are drifts of white powdered sugar on the counter: it speckles the walls, wafts through the air, and settles onto every single surface in the kitchen. It was a two pound bag. It’s everywhere. I’m regretting (again) having installed black appliances. You’d think I would have known from having had a black car. It shows every speck of dust, let alone food. I look down at the newly white floor with it’s cute little white paw prints.
“Honey?” my wife says, her voice going up at the end into an extra question mark.
“It’s okay”, I say, looking at the dog. “We ‘re having a white Christmas.”
There’s Christmas, torn between chasing his white sugared tail and licking the floor, with a mounding ridge of powdered sugar along his back and a snow-like pile on his head.
You know, God, when I said “Hey how about a white Christmas this year?”, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.
What can you do? God seems to have a really GOOD sense of humor. The old adage; be careful what you ask for comes to mind. I look at the ceiling. “Thanks”, I say. “Any chance of a snow plow while you’re at it?”
“What are you talking about…what on earth is that noise?”
You know, two pounds of airborne powdered sugar is a LOT of sugar.
“It’s Christmas, he’s licking the wall.”
Big sloppy slurpy raspy noises are interspersed with the sound of his nails ticking wildly on the tile. He’s managed to get the sugar off his tail. Now he’s trying for his rump. He’s like a kid in new snow. He wants to do all the fun stuff at the same time.
“Do I want to understand you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay.” She settles back onto the couch. I can hear it creak. She’s not a kitchen person. Great cook. But I’m the cleaner. She’ll come in eventually. The curiosity will kill her.
Well. I have to wait for it all to settle anyway. (Any excuse to text Daisy)
Me: “You won’t believe what just happened”
Daisy: ??? Watching the Zodiac killer…
Me: 2lb bag of pwdrd sugr. everywhere. dog is covered.
Me: Think it’s okay if I let him help me clean it up?
Daisy: That’s what kids are for
Me: How about if I hold him over the counters? Too much?
Daisy: Nope. Go for it.
Me: TX…need 2 know these things
Daisy: um…Zodiac killer??!!
Me: Sorry. nite.
We have to keep these things in perspective. So much for an early bed time. I’m like a mom in new snow. In the house. I don’t know what to clean first. The dog? The counters? Me? I swipe a finger across the snowy counter. Hmm. Tastes pretty good. Maybe I won’t hold him over the counter afterall. I can rationalize anything when it comes to sugar. The Pack That Licks together Sticks Together?
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