Labor Pain

Sometimes I just hate Christmas. Well, no, I don't hate Christmas, I just hate the hoop-de-do. What I wouldn't give to spend a nice quiet Christmas all alone, or with one other person, no tree, no ginormous family dinner, no presents, no stress. But that's not the life I drew... mine is a life of family, and my family has traditions, and those traditions are labor-intensive.

But what I really hate is how the Grandmother gets on my back about getting the house ready, as if I haven't been doing it (and rather well if I say so myself) every year for the last twenty-five years. And it's not like it's difficult: schlepping the boxes out of the attic, moving the living-room furniture around, decorating the tree, decorating the house, schlepping the boxes back into the attic, cleaning everything, setting the table, and baking yams and stuffing... what could be simpler? Time-consuming, certainly (I estimated approximately thirty hours of labor last year), and a lot of physical labor, but not complicated or anything.

I sort of wish I weren't working this week, that would make it a lot simpler. But my sister is hanging out at the house this week helping out, so all the cleaning bits will get done well and quickly (my sister is very good at cleaning other people's houses). The trick is to keep the Grandmother placated. At least her shopping is already done, and we decided to cheat on the pie-crusts and buy Pillsbury. All we have to do is keep her calm.

Well, gotta go... my uncle just brought the tree, I'd better go help put it in the base. Toodles!