We Want ... A Shrubbery! (A Nice One, Not Too Expensive.)

The War on Christmas has hit close to home. In fact, it's IN my home, and about 2 feet to my right. We brought in and decorated the tree last night, and my cat (who shall hereon be called Stinky, not to be confused with her much older and larger 'brother' FatBoy), was in Evil Kitty Hell Spawn heaven (or wherever it is that Demon Cats go to party), targeting only the most fragile and irreplaceable ornaments and whatever bare foot happened to wander past the tree. She has not managed to eat anything yet, I can survive with 9 toes, and the dog is still alive and not crushed to death with a Hallmark Snoopy ornament lodged in her skull, so I can safely say that, as yet, she has failed to destroy this most sacred holiday which is in no way superior to Kwanzaa, Chanukah, Festivus or Bill O'Reilly.

So, we obviously have our Christmas tree up, sans lights because they don't work anymore. The corn husk Nativity scene is done and waiting to be mailed off (even if Mary looks like she had too much Communion wine and can't stop tipping forward into Joseph's nether regions). The Hogwarts scarf, at roughly 1 stripe per 4 hours multiplied by 18 stripes minus 4 stripes divided by 6 days equals one less present under the tree and I'm sure the math isn't right but I'm not finishing the damn thing in time and if you have a problem you can take it up with Santa, dammit oh, and Merry Christmas, darling. The doll clothes will be finished in time, but only because T2 has complete and total faith in everything I say, from "I'm not making anything here, I'm just practicing on my sewing machine and Santa must have come early and eaten all the fudge and although it's only 3 in the afternoon and 7 days till Christmas, I'm pretty sure I heard sleigh bells on the roof so you better get to bed and stay there till I call you."

Now all that is left to do is get the last minute gifts and stocking stuffers; have the customary Christmas Eve meltdown when we realize that although we have enough wrapping paper to entirely cover the White House, we don't have any Scotch tape, and it's somehow your mother's fault, don't blame ME; prepare the airing of the grievances and perform the feats of strength; right before consuming enough spiked eggnog to take down a buffalo and passing out under the tree.

Happy Kwansmasukahus, everyone.