Catnip Roasting on an Open Fire

We have a crazy cat.  She's called Eva June.  She's a beautiful Maine Coon with striking yellow-green eyes . . . . she's also the spawn of Satan . . .  wicked, evil, mean, and totally unsocial.  She won't let anyone touch her, except me and on occasion my daughter, who's her Mom (but not her real Mom). Most of the time I want to dragon-kick her across the room for using the furniture as her own personal scratching post or string her up by her elbows for hacking up little kitty cigars that I will, without fail, step in with bare feet.  But, for some reason, when she does want to cuddle, I'm her girl.  Which makes me fairly sure that if we were trapped in the house in a blizzard and everyone died . . . . She'd totally eat me last.

I tell you that to tell you this, Christmas decorating at our house is like hugging our crazy cat, "Evil June:"  a little dangerous, a little warm, and a lot of awesome.  Tradition follows that we crank up the psychotically-challenged Christmas carols in her honor.  To start, we play the old standard, "Do You Hear What I Hear?" to soothe Eva's schizophrenia.  We celebrate her multiple personalities with, "We Three Kings of Disorient Are" and poke fun at her paranoia with, "Santa Claws Is Coming To Get You." As a tribute to her dementia we play, "I 'Think' I'll Be Home For Christmas" followed closely by her personality disorder's favorite, "You Better Watch Out, I'm Gonna Cry, I'm Gonna Pee, Maybe I'll Tell You Why."  And finally we all join in with a rousing-ly manic rendition of, "Deck the Halls and Walls and House and Lawn and Streets and Office and the Stores and the Cars and the Buses and Trucks and Trees and Fire Hydrants and . . ."

Hope your Christmas decorating is bright, beautiful, and full of crazy kitty power.  Here are few photos of our efforts.

We hung our Christmas wreath on our newly painted door! We added a bit of vintage silver and a wide red satin ribbon to our boxwood wreath to give it a little patina.

My girl baby was home from university and got to hang all of her childhood ornaments and reminisce . . .  she loves to decorate the Christmas tree … … and my baby boy just loves the Christmas tree!

Baby It Was Cold Outside!   We had temperatures in the teens during our decorating extravaganza, so, the Hubbs  built a roaring fire, chilled a bottle of champagne and threw down a sheepskin rug  to  keep our tootsies warm! And it just wouldn't feel right without our vintage ornaments. I'm kind of partial to our Shiny Brite collections! I love to contain them in apothecary jars on the mantel, in silver Revere bowls on side tables and in niches!   And this is what happens when I clean vintage brass and gold flatware all afternoon . . .

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I Am Christmas (And So Can You)

Thanksgiving has come and gone. Black Friday is officially in the books. Merry old soul or not, the Christmas season is officially upon us. And, this past Monday marked what is called "Cyber Monday," which to me, sounds a lot like the business-end of a pervy 1-900-number conversation, only online. But, the reality of Cyber Monday shapes up more like Black Friday on your computer, only without those pesky retail chain policies like "no jammies or fluffy fake fur slippers."

This year, my sugar plum imagine-ings have been slow in coming - my festive spirit missed it's flight and is on stand-by, and I'm thinkin' this lack of merriment basically makes me a heathen! And as it turns out, my children and the Hubbs agree with the "you-be-a-grinch" diagnosis and have begun speaking with accents to try and get me in the Christmas mood. Five days of these accents, which really sound more like speech impediments, have caused me to wish all 3 of them harm. The accent consists of forming the letter "s" in the back of their mouths along with buckets of saliva which sounds like "zzzsssccchhh."

A typical conversation over the Thanksgiving holiday went something like this:

MY SON: "Mama, it'zsh time to meazshure me - I think I've grown - Do you know where the yardzshtick is?

ME: "I'm gonna chase you with that yardstick, if you don't stop it with the accent!"

MY SON: "Zshorry."

MY DAUGHTER: "Mama, I'd like to zshing you a zshong. It'zsh called I Zshaw Three Zshipzsh . . . . and ah one . . . and ah two . . . and ah three . . . "

ME: "Liv!" (said with a crazed look in my eye!)

MY DAUGHTER: "Zshorry."

THE HUBBS: "Yikezsch!! Thizsh cold weather izsh making me zshneezsh and wheezsh!"

ME: "Zshcott!"

So, to put an end to the "spit fest," I did a little exploring on the internet for some inspiration on "Decking of the Hallzsh" and I'd like to zshare a photo with you that kinda exprezshzshezsh my lack of energy.



Photo courtesy Apartment Therapy.

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