Saturday, December 20, 2008

On our marks... get set...
Against my protests, of course, the tree went up last week-end. Which was probably for the best, considering how time is flying. I woke up this morning with one of those panic attacks - so much to do, so little time. I had the similar feeling in a work related way yesterday; now I'm feeling better about work. Which makes me suspicious - I must be overlooking something, right?

So, anyway, so much to do.
Shopping is pretty much done. Except for checking my account every half-hour to see if they have shipped my last purchase. Which, by the way, was made in time for Christmas delivery, considering I actually paid for standard shipping, and they're saying it won't ship 'til Tuesday. Oh, whatever...

I'm working on some craft projects, which I should have finished in November, but I usually need that adrenaline rush to finish these things. I thought it would be fun and more personal to make little things for my friends at work. Maybe I was overly ambitious, but without a car to run out shopping I'm sort of committed. Unless I could convince Martha to make Raspberry Meringues for everyone. Or buy me about 8 adult friendly, budget merciful toys. Do you think the 'girls' at work like Playmobils?

The house is sort of deteriorating into shambles. The early tree is a blessing - it delights the eye and distracts from the mess. I was thinking of January '09 as being the time for our big switch to all real adult breakable dishes. But something dreadful is happening to the melamine Christmas plates. Rick thinks it may have something to do with washing the melamine in the dishwasher with the silverplate flatware - yes, Emily, I know I shouldn't but it's too hard to get everyone with the program - since all the melamine started looking shabby around the time I received a beautiful set of silverplate for everyday use.

The intermittent back spasms kept me from grabbing the 'good' Dickens Christmas plates off the top shelf, but I was able to get Rick's help before he left for the shop. He was slightly put out - wondering why I hadn't mentioned the fact that my back, between my shoulders, seizes up at the most inconvenient moments - at my doctor's appointment yesterday. An appointment for which I needed a ride. Rick was the lucky driver. And I did forewarn him to bring a laptop or something because the rheumatologist's office is pretty much BYOM (M as in magazine). This is not his main office and the reading material is the dregs. The hour I spent reading a very old issue of Vibe taught me this lesson. (Yes, I will read just about anything. But Vibe does not have a whole lot for the middle-aged church secretary crowd. On the other hand, I would rather read Vibe than a magazine entitled "Middle-Aged Arthritic Church Secretary.")

The whole point of this digression is that I don't think there is really anything wrong with my back - this has only happened to me a few times in the past and always when I was very tense. So this too shall pass. But any serious mention of such a new complaint to my doctor, with whom I seem to have something of a communication problem anyway - might be met with an order for an MRI or full body scan or some other medically wasteful, time-sucking exercise.

Time... time is of the essence here. Emily wants to come by tomorrow to decorate cookies. The only thing we're missing is cookies. It is with great shame that I admit that I no longer even try to execute my mother's recipe for ginger bread. Too difficult. Too much cussing involved. (It wasn't until I made them myself that I understood why my mother preferred to bake the gingerbread while we were at school. You need space, time, and freedom to cuss. I don't think I ever heard my mother say a "bad" word. But it just might have happened if I had been around for the rolling-out of the gingerbread!) And sugar cookies for decorating are courtesy of the Pillsbury DoughBoy. I'm feeling inadequate... there goes my back.

Time to lie flat on my back. Have a little prayer time. Get my mind off the cookies and the dustballs - and may the two never meet. And then on with the glitter.

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-- Michelangelo, quoted in Vasari's Lives of the Artists

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