Yes... All is quiet at gingajoy. Mainly because in RL the eagle has landed. In the form of Nanny and Grandy--all the way from merry old Engerland. My parents. We've not seen them for a year. They arrived last Friday, and the last few days has been a whirlwind of excitement, shopping, baby-ogling, eating, shopping, cooking, drinking, shopping, sewing, stressing, boozing. And no internets.
Oh. and did I mention the shopping? Did I mention how freaking weak the dollar is compared to the British pound? Did I mention how dirt cheap everything in America is? (apparently).
I am (as m'old Dad would say. A lot on this trip, actually) Bloomin' Knackered. I am also beginning to heartily curse the following phone conversation, which took place, oh, about mid-August:
Mum: "and this year, instead of main presents, I thought we could just do stockings for each other!"
Me (remembering Christmas past, and thrill of stocking crammed with gifts at end of bed...) : OOOh! yes! Good idea! Let's do it! What fun! Oh yes!
Let's just do stockings. Instead.
Let's wander aimlessly from store to store wondering what the frigging hell two grown men would want in a motherfucking stocking. Let's inflict joke books and miniature summer-sausages on them. Let's buy a six pack of Guinness as a last resort, coz that'll stuff a stockin' let me tell you.
Let's spend shitloads more than we would on a nice sweater, a power tool, and a book or two, and cram that motherfucker to the hilt.
OOOH! Yes. Let's make homemade stockings so we can have them "extra big" (for the children, mind).
Dear oh dear. I am being dead Ebernezery, I know. And I realize that in light of my previous post, my harsh reflection here makes me seem like the coldest daughter on the planet. And in truth I am having a blast. I've not seen my mother in a year, and we do tend to cram all the experiences that should be healthily meted out over that time into this one deeply concentrated period of Christmas frenzy. It's fun. I look forward to it all year (which might be part of the problem, I realize).
At the same time as I am utterly stressed out and somehow channeling all my mother's deeply complex expressions and mood swings so that I am the complete freak. My husband is taking the brunt and giving me "who the fuck are you?" looks as I fret over each and every meal and whether there are ample dog-defurring devices on hand. My high point was shrieking about the tree not being straight as I hurled lights and decorations onto it.
Love her to death. Love Christmas too (why?) But I AM... Bloomin' Knackered.