To avoid being the evil mother ripping her poor child from the home he so dearly loves (gag), we are staying here in the wolverine den for the holidays.
In light of our housing situation, I had suggested to my family that we flee somewhere really neat for Christmas, say a ski resort in the mountains or a nice country inn. I figured everyone would jump at the chance to leave our current residence, which is deteriorating faster than we can get the new one up.
Imagine my surprise when with great big cow eyes, my street-savvy, tough-talking oldest son said with incredulity, “But this is the house I grew up in.” This is what I’ve heard from him about “the house I grew up in” since we started building the new one: His room is too small, he has to share the one bathroom with the rest of us, the basement is like a fetid sewer, and a strange mold has started growing on the dining room ceiling.
And so from somewhere I have to whip up a whole lot of holiday spirit very quickly because we all know that around here, the “man behind the curtain” pulling the levers to make Christmas happen is a woman with a lousy attitude because she can’t have her way – that being me.
Today Dirtman and I will venture out to get a tree and decorations. We will become fanatical about sending the Parson Russell Terriers outside on a regular basis because, as the book says, “never trust the bathroom habits of a PRT,” and a large tree in the living room is a huge temptation for any breed. Except, of course, for Australian Shepherds, who are perfect.
The cats will become part of the tree decorations, mostly to get away from the terriers. The tree will tip over at least once during the season at which point Dirtman will threaten to get rid of the “%&!#@ cats.” I remind him the %&!#@ cats kill the %&!#@ field mice and the %&!#@ snakelets from the black snake lurking in the basement that watches us do laundry.
Tomorrow I will start Christmas cookies, which everyone will eat tomorrow night. Then the next day I will make more Christmas cookies, which I will hide and we will subsequently find five years from now when we finally move. The day after I will make more Christmas cookies that may actually make it into tins before Topper counter surfs and knocks enough off to satisfy the whole pack. I will continue making Christmas cookies every day until at least one batch actually makes it to Christmas.
I will play Christmas music, which Heir 1 will declare as “lame,” but now I know is a requirement. I will have the grace not to mention this.
Heir 2 will chase the dogs around trying to decorate them with garland. To get them truly hyper he will wrap the garland around Gaspode’s cow. And this is how our garland ends up in pieces.
Dirtman will scold me for “going overboard on this Christmas thing” because it’s “just another day,” and I will call him Scrooge and threaten to take his presents back. He will get a look of panic in his eyes and spent the rest of the night on the internet, paying exorbitant shipping fees to make sure things get here on time.
And finally, I will spend a day writing Christmas cards and explaining to everyone why the return address is the same one as last year, when last year we announced that the house would be up by summer. I’ll just give them the URL for this blog.
It’s quicker and I’ll cry less.
(Editor’s note: Please hold off on the pity parties for Sisiggy. We would remind you she has a swimming pool contractor, rendering any complaining invalid. Save your sympathy for someone with real problems and we will try to contain her whining. Thank you.)