It's Christmas here this Sunday. My in-laws arrive for their own personalized celebration and so all decorating deadlines are pushed forward by 10 days. Normally this would not be a problem. Hubby usually starts emptying the loft of all things festive on December 1st and begging shamelessly for me to put it all up. I agreed to do it this weekend, if they helped me clear up the house first (you may call it bribery, I call it incentive).
They whizzed around and soon all was ship-shape, so off the menfolk went to pick a tree.
The selection of our tree seems to appeal to some cave man instinct within them. They just love it, in the same way they hate almost all other forms of shopping. And without me grumbling away as the voice of reason, they get away with buying something that is really much too large for our hallway and has to be manoeuvred into the house in a kind of bizarre tribute to an episode of Monster Moves. Trees, Televisions, Trucks - bigger is always better in blokeworld.
But our favourite tree guy was SOLD OUT. On December 9th?? We are on a tree waiting list. I kid you not. Which means my new decorations are still homeless and my old friends still in boxes.
But on the plus side, I did get the marshmallows scraped off the baking trays and packaged up for Johnny's Montessori teachers.
And my Magimix is still functioning, although the whisk attachment will never be the same. But hey, it's all blog-fodder. Which is my new Zen approach for dealing with disaster and disappointment.