Ding Dong Merrily On High

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Isn't it? This is what my lover Bing is constantly telling me via my iTunes. And you know what, I believe him, that old rascal. Because what kind of a weird name is Bing anyway?

Christmas presents have been presenting themselves on our front walk all week long. Could a more delightsome thing exist than Christmas presents? Good golly, I am pro-gifts. It is my love language, you know. (Or do you?) Some day I may run for office and if I do, I am sure that my platform will include presents in there somehow. Something like "Presents For All!" (Socialism?) "Presents for Me!" (Totalitarianism?) "Presents For Whomever Tickles My Back!" (are we back at Democracy yet?)

My mother-in-law Eldene sent a hum-dinger of a package of presents yesterday and I am especially pleased at the present because I now have a box with which to send their presents if you follow, thus presenting a huge relief unto yours truly as finding boxes for shipping presents is presently where my incredible genius ends, at the present.

RELATED: I believe firmly in our constitutional right to end sentences prepositionally. It's a new decade soon you know and these types of things will be allowed in 2010 I have decided. It is my gift to humanity.

But I am talking about my mother-in-law here and what follows is what I have to say on the subject: The way you know you have a good mother-in-law is when you count up the Christmas presents and you realize that you have exactly one gift more than your husband, her own flesh and blood.

Eldene's presents smell different and thus present a new level of curiosities for the two dumber animals living in my house. The presents lasted a full two hours under the tree in peace before all hell broke loose. While I was in the shower Barnaby got to the gift Eldene sent for my parents and gnawed off a corner of the packaging (spoiler alert mom, they're chocolates!). But to give some credit to Commenter John, who has been suspicious of my precious Petey all this time, Peter Pan also enjoyed a little joy-ride under the Christmas tree. Somehow, don't even ask me how, but somehow, Peter Pan found his present. The one intended for him. So he opened it. With his freaky canine mind control powers.

We found him on the bed merrily gnawing his new Merry Christmas bone and The Holbs turned to me all cornfused-like and said, Did you get him a new bone? and I said, Hells no Holbsy, because both of us know how weird Peter gets with toys. It is best for Peter's fragile mental health that we limit new toys to Christmases and Birthdays, you see. Toys are The Pan's Love Language, did you know? Then we both looked to the floor and saw the wrapping paper, which actually Peter Pan had unwrapped rather neatly if you must know, especially for an animal without possession of opposable thumbs.

I took the toy away with intents to rewrap. Peter Pan moped and whined and cried and wrote some emo poetry, then he found Barney's present under the tree and opened that. At which point we gave up and decided to let the dogs have their spoiled surprises early. Because, really.

I was up until 2AM the last couple of nights finishing Christmas presents, and I have a sore throat, and so of course that is where all my creativity has gone. I find as a result of my late-night marathons of creativity and thoughtfulness and tender swallowing that there are no longer any words in my brain anymore. Oh sure, I can jumble up a few and spew them for entertainment value now and then if I save them up long enough, but mostly I am a tragic mute. I have begun communicating with The Holbs entirely via eyebrow. Single eyebrow once means "Take the dogs out please babykins sweetie buns?" Double eyebrows twice is to mean, well, you know what it means.

All is mollified however because today at work I charmed a five year old boy into singing me the Rubber Duckie song while his mom sampled hand lotion. So obviously, I still got it. Really it was a serenade, an epic romance, and I became so overcome with amorous feelings that I felt compelled to give him the emergency chocolate I keep in my apron pocket for when things become dire. Later another boy of about the same age and height came in and handed me three pairs of squishy socks with flushed cheeks and trance-like eyes. I was sure it was love at first sight. Or it was the red lipstick. No man can resist the red lipstick, you know.

The Holbspotter has rented a Harry Potter and since we have a rule about Harry Potters and Meg Ryans I must depart with this post still woefully uninteresting and without hardly any sparkle in it at all. But how else will I be able to keep up when my Holbseldore starts romantically quoting Harry Potter lines at me? Harrys and Megs are our Love Language, after all.

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In the comments let's talk

Christmas baking

and Christmas cards.

When you make them,

When you send them.

(Assuming I can make such demands?)

I am thinking:

Sugar Cookies

Russian Tea Cookies

Something Else Clever You Are About To Inspire Me With