Wherein I prove that I have some effing holiday spirit.

So something strange has happened this winter. I'm not as paralyzed by the holidays as I've been in years past. Usually, December rolls around and I automatically break out into hives and lock myself in a closet with a jug of cabernet. I can usually drink my way out by mid January in time for my birthday. To me, Christmas is a time of closeted resentment and seething frustration. Usually, the only nice thing I can come up with about December is, "I like ham," and even that is sort of a lie because I'm not sure I really DO like ham. But this last week, I was in the grocery store and actually found myself humming along with Frank Sinatra who was crooning SOMETHING. I don't know. All I know is that I didn't get kicked out of Whole Foods for standing in the middle of the frozen food aisle shouting "Fuck THAT guy!" I then had "Silver Bells" stuck in head for a day or two and it didn't drive me to plunge a dull pencil into my ear. I caught myself humming "Make Me a Christmas Bride" while chopping onions and didn't automatically thrust the knife up towards my jugular to MAKE IT STOP. So either my meds have given me a stronger immune system AND holiday cheer or Marc is slipping something into my cider. Hard to say.

Either way, it was time to bring out the fake trees! that I bought last year. I say that with an exclamation point because I unfailingly kill live things. Well, plants, let's be clear. If you bring your kids over, they'll be in one piece upon leaving. Mostly. If they don't like salt licks, you might want to find someone else to babysit.

So the trees were yanked out of storage by their trembling limbs, stripped of their Glad bag covers and the halls were decked. So here. Photographic evidence that I'm slowly moving past my brittle acceptance of Christmas.

All good decorating starts with a fire. It should be stated that the women in my family - along with being prone to bossiness and never having to ask for directions - are complete pyromaniacs. Let me be clear: if you cannot get your fire started, call one of us. We can get wet logs to throw out a flame that will negate your need to get your eyebrows waxed. Perhaps ever. It's on my resume.


Kylie does not like fires. Her bed normally sits in front of it, but the moment she sees me carrying logs into the house she high tails it into the dining room and spends the rest of the evening alternating between peering around the corner at us and disappearing upstairs to polish her nails black and read Sartre. But look how cute she is:


And then! LOOK! ORNAMENTS! I have this extreme aversion to Christmas colors (shock) and so the ornaments are what my nephew would refer to as "dull colors". But I think decorating with the standard red and green and those shitacular epilepsy lights would cause my spleen to explode. And who wants to clean THAT up?


And then I took a nap. Or stumbled across that jug of cabernet that I was talking about earlier. I don't know. Either way, I woke up under the cabinet that houses our liquor and BEHOLD:


Small trees with Buddha! Who is holding a candlelight vigil. Presumably for the tequila that seemed to have walked off the other week and hasn't returned back to the cupboard yet. Strangest thing. Actually, I'm full of shit here. I put these little trees up last Christmas and then just totally forgot to take them down and then got used to them and then just stopped seeing them altogether, so really, they were already there. But let's just focus on the nice photo composition. Lalala.

And then finally, the outdoor wreath. This photo caused a bit of consternation. Kylie was trying to get outside to avoid the fire, I was opening the door wider and wider to get a good angle on the thing and Marc was screaming, "YOU'RE LETTING ALL OF THE HOT AIR OUT!" and I was yelling back that he ought to just speak more and then that problem would be solved and then his cerebellum exploded. Either way:


There you have it. We are CHRISTMASSY, dammit! And there is cheer. I think.