Decorating blues

Decorating is not my favorite thing.  No even my second favorite thing.  I don’t even get as far as leaving the lights strung up on the eaves of the house all year long.  They simply do not exist.  Okay, I take that back.  Little twinkly lights do exist, but far away in a tin hidden in the attic.

Every day fichus

I have a fichus.  I’m happy with it.  At Christmas time, to appease nagging family members, I wrap a strand of lights around it and toss a red embroidered tablecloth folded in half serving as a cute holiday skirt around the gold pail.  I flip over the green pillow on the chair to reveal Santa Claus on the other side.  The tree looks happy.  Some years, if I’m feeling extremely in the spirit of the season, I might hang an ornament or two from days long gone.  Maybe the blue ice skater who lost her tiara in an entanglement with a Nutcracker or gingerbread men made out of cork edged in white rickrack, remnants of a creative day spent with an over-zealous friend and young children. 

Happy Christmas fichus

Did I mention that the fichus is fake?  It sits in my living room all year long, needs no water or attention.  None of that cutesy plant talk for me trying to keep it alive. 

I have an elaborate gingerbread house wrapped in crinkly see-thru wrap sitting on my dining room table.  I got lucky on that one.  I attended an office Christmas party and the house was the table centerpiece.  Everyone drew numbers to see who would win the decoration.  I didn’t win but the winner three tables over forgot their prize.  That was five years ago.  How could it have lasted that long without the love?

I just wasn’t born with the decorating gene.  You know, the one that comes with loads and loads of extra work pulling everything out of the attic and garage.  I know after half an hour excitement wanes and everyone leaves me alone to finish the decorating.  Even worse, they mysteriously disappear as soon as the clock strikes midnight on New Years Eve and I’m left packing up all those boxes again.

My fichus started its reign after the Christmas when during a blur of insanity, we flew to New York City for the holiday. 

“Why are you going?” Sue Trueblue asked.  “You don’t have relatives back East.”

“I don’t feel like decorating.”

After five days in New York with six travelers who displayed absolutely no harmony, I acquiesced to decorate a tree the following year.  Hence, the Christmas fichus.   What more spirit do you want? 

I see no purpose in wrapping either.  It takes time and tons of scotch tape.  In the flash of an eye, it’s all in a wad in a trashcan.  But last year I solved that.  I bought a package of plastic Glad Wrap trash bags.  They even came with a red plastic drawstring.  How much more festive can I get?  I lovingly placed everyone’s presents inside the roomy bag, merrily printed a name in red marker on a 3×5 note card, and stapled it onto their own personal Santa bag.

My oldest daughter didn’t think the wrap was clever or appropriate.  “I’ll wrap gifts for you next year,” she whispered in my ear, “so you won’t have to.” 

“Okay,” I answered.  Either way it’s a win for me.

Related posts:

1. Halloween on a budget
2. We’ll make pies
3. I’m old enough to be thankful