Every year following Thanksgiving, I inevitably get a phone call that goes something like this:
Momma: Hiya Daught.
Me: Hi Mary!
Momma: I'm not doing Christmas this year.
Momma: I mean, I just want to go away somewhere. I'm sick of celebrating Christmas. I'm done. I'm not doing it. I'm sick of making it special. I'm sick of being the Special Maker. I'm not going to do it. I'm just not, okay?
Me: Okay Momma, that's fine. Whatever you want.
Momma: I mean, it's not like you've given me any Grandbabies or anything.
Me: I know, Momma. I know.
Momma: So just don't expect Christmas to be all special this year, okay?
Me: Okay, I won't.
Momma: So what exactly are you expecting then?
Me: I want to take Buddy for a walk, play some board games, and have booze in my coffee each morning. The end.
Momma: Okay. We can probably do that.
And then I walk in the door Saturday to find this:
Christmas blankets! Cookies! Stuffed animals of the Rudolf and Santa-Bear variety! Wreathes! Christmas vignettes! Garland! A decked out silver and red gorgeously decorated tree! Candles! Lights strung on both fireplaces! Cookies! Sprinkles! And best of all, those candies with the gooey stuff in the middle.