Ho, Ho, Ho . . . No, No No!

Oh.  Dear.

In the words of Alice's White Rabbit:

"I'm late!  I'm late!  For a very important date!"

Do you realize it's only 2 weeks until Christmas?

No need to panic.  You can leave all that to me.

I am awed by the people who by now have their houses all decorated, their cookies all baked,

their gifts all wrapped, and already know what they are wearing to church on Christmas Eve.

I am not sure we are the same species.

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What?  You didn't know that dinosaurs also visited Bethlehem? Where did you go to Sunday School?

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At That Old House, there are still lots of these sitting around cluttering up the landscape:

 and they are all full of things like this:

and this:

Tree skirts and ornaments

and this:

Hey look!  It's ME!

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The Great Tree Hunt is on the docket for Saturday.  Howard wanted to cross the border into peaceful Pennsylvania and whack a poor unsuspecting fir tree (we New Jerseyans, we whack), but we've pretty much run out of time for raiding sorties into beautiful Bucks County, axe in hand.

Instead, we'll probably do what we did last year: get a tree at the Historical Society's annual sale, pay too much for it, shrug and say, "It's for a good cause."  Because it is, and they have nice trees.

And once again, my dear husband will take down the sunroom chandelier,

and wrestle with a big prickly sticky huge fresh tree that will fight him all the way . . . but Howard will win.

That's last year's tree on the floor, bound and gagged.  And that is Howard, winning my heart all over again with his skilled use of the Dyson.  It's better than roses or candy, fellas.

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My sister sends her husband out to buy their fresh tree.  Without her.

I can think of only a few explanations for this bizarre behavior:
1) She hates to be outside in the cold.
2) Her husband is an excellent judge of tree worthiness.  (Oh, yes, I do crack myself up.)
3) This gives her the opportunity to tell him over and over again, all through the happy 12 days of Yule,
     what is wrong with the tree he chose.

She says it's reason #1.  But we know better, don't we?

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 Settling down to blogging is getting more and more challenging,

as my brain is splintering into ever-tinier shiny shards of random Christmas stuff.

 

I'm sure nearly all of you have brains in a similar state.

And I know that this year I will do what I have done every year:  I will do what I can.

When day dawns on December 24th, I will say, "Enough."

 
I will relax and enjoy being with my husband and my girls, soak in the Christmas Eve services, kvell at hearing Annie sing O Holy Night in the hushed and candle-lit church, wish dear friends a Merry Christmas at midnight in that special deep still darkness of Christmas Eve, go home to indulge in once-yearly egg nog with my daughters, and of course go to sleep way too late, only to wake ridiculously early on Christmas morning.

 A part of me still expects to have little rosy pajama-clad munchkins up at 6 AM,

stumbling down the stairs in the semi-darkness, eager to see if Santa came.

Do you remember the shock on the first Christmas morning you had to wake your kids?

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Today, it's on with the roller skates, and out the door and into the shops.

By tonight?  A decorated mantel would be nice, and the Christmas tablecloths sorted and ironed.

And a pillow or two scattered about:

For many other projects, I need a second pair of hands.

God bless weekends, and willing husbands.

Have yourself a Merry Getting-Ready-For-Christmas Season, complete with the bling and the songs and the baking and the running around, and also complete with the quiet contemplations of Advent.  Joy to the world!  -- Cass