It is raining here. I’m getting out my cubit measure. Because the mud is really deep. Santa will get splattered. Quite possibly he will lose a boot to the muck. Forget the cookies. Santa is going to need flip-flops: lots and lots of replaceable flip-flops.
Christmas (the dog) is doing a reasonably good job of leaving the presents wrapped. They’re only slightly damp and disheveled looking. Lots of missing bows. Note to self: next year? Do not tie tags to the bows. Because of this oversight, I foresee handing pink floral underwear to Micah to open on Christmas morning.
I cavalierly guessed which present goes to whom, and I wrote (hopefully) the correct names in ink on their wrapping. I’m not sure, but I think Shaun is getting dog biscuits this year. I hope the dog is happy with the new crock pot.
Shaun was staring at the dog and the tree yesterday. “What?”, I said, looking at the dog. His head was level to the lowest ornaments: “He’s not ripping anything open, right?”
“No”, Shaun says, slowly, “it looks like he’s licking something.” We both cross our arms. Lean closer to look.
The dog is very studiously washing the face of a snowman ornament. Shaun and I look at each other. Okaaaay.
Christmas is Tidy Dog. He likes things to stay where they belong. Trees live in the yard. Not the living room. I think if he were taller than 9 inches, the “stick” would have been dragged outside where it belongs. His bow and tag relocation strategy is creating problematic interactions between bipeds.
“Honey? Why is there a giant bow in the bathtub?”
“Uh”, I say, “you’re getting a bath for Christmas?”
Micah stomps out of his bedroom. “I don’t think it’s funny!”, he says indignantly, waving a scrap of paper in the air.
“What?”, I say, mildly.
“That tag on my laundry basket! (Mimics shrill voice, presumably my nagging one.) Dear Micah, Merry Christmas! Have fun with it, love Mom.” He shakes his head. “Geeze, just tell me you want me to do the laundry, okay?”
We should have an interesting Christmas morning.
In a brilliant effort not to take part in The Candy Replacement Program, I am leaving the candy at Daisy’s until the last second. I wonder if she knows her doorbell is going to ring at exactly 11:59 on Christmas Eve?
I haven’t heard whether or not possession of The Candy has forced her into The Replacement Program.
I can’t put a friend in this position again. Friends do not leave chocolate at friends houses, with the directive Do Not Eat. That’s frenemy territory.
Next year I’m renting a safe deposit box, at the bank, for the $6 worth of M&M’s. Better storage area than my thighs. (I suppose I can use it during the rest of the year for my birth certificate, or some other dumb thing. Like our will.)
I have to save me from myself somehow.
I had one of those days.
I ate an entire package of raw broccoli before I realized it was a Ghiradelli chocolate assortment. (It was awfully good broccoli.) Fresh and minty, with chocolate undertones.
I think I’ve gone into sugar hallucinations.
I have one question smoldering in the holiday debris of my brain. I really need to know. I’ve asked this question periodically since I was five years old. It’s the stuff of horror movies.
What, exactly, is a sugar-plum? Why do they dance in our heads?
And most importantly, can we fumigate?