Yes, that's a Flashdance t-shirt. No, I have no idea why my mother let me wear it to visit Santa. |
Yesterday I could hardly wait to pack up my computer and leave the office. My commute home was punctuated with stops at three stores and ended with a car bursting with bags full of the Christmas essentials. Sugar, flour and pounds of butter for baking. Whole chickens and Brussels sprouts for roasting. Little gifts to fill stockings hung with care. Trees and poinsettias for decorating.
Even the bathroom got a poinsettia this year. |
After three trips down to the car (living on the second floor can have it's advantages but I never remember what they are after a big trip to the grocery), I had finally unloaded my loot. I put some soup on the stove, settled my favorite gentleman on the couch with a good book, and set about untangling the Christmas lights. No matter how careful I am to roll them up, unknotted, the year before they always manage to work their way into a giant mess over the spring and summer months. Maybe they are just mad at me for leaving them in the scary basement. I wouldn't like it down there either.
Every year growing up my mo.... uh hum... St. Nicholas would leave my brother and I a new ornament. When I left my mom's house for my own home, they were packed up for me to use to decorate my own tree.
Once the lights were up and the ornaments were hung, Christmas had officially descended on my apartment.
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