My roommates are in the process of Christmas-ifying our apartment. This actually began last week (before the day of thanks) when we bought wrapping paper to cover "a few select areas" in the apartment. I was with my writing friends and returned to find every possible area and then some covered in wrapping paper and tied with curly ribbons.
When I returned from Thanksgiving, my roommates had added white lights, which was actually the one decoration I insisted on--I'm addicted to them. I've written poetry about them. Bad poetry, but still.
And now one of them has shown up with bags and boxes and Santa Clauses and bells and the oddly shaped horns, that I know aren't French, but I don't know what else to call them. All cute-sy and pine cone-y and red ribbon tied. She keeps saying, "If we're going to be the Christmas apartment, we need to go all out." Who said we wanted to be the Christmas apartment? It's not like anyone will actually ever come over to behold us in our Christmas glory, complete with matching reindeer sweaters.
I'm all for Christmas. Hooray for angels and shepherds and wise man and the whole Nativity bit. Hooray for driving around snooty neighborhoods checking out obscene light displays. Just keep it out of my apartment.
There goes my Beatles record. . . my sanity for a wreath. Stay tuned for tomorrow night when we hang snowflakes from the ceiling and hold hands to sing Amy Grant Christmas songs around our $9.99 fake plastic Target brand Christmas tree.
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1 comments:
You must have missed the memo that came around from the first presidency stating that there will be a heavenly visitation to the apartment with the most tacky wrapping paper per square inch. Apparently everyone else got it.
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