It’s been an orgy of gift-wrapping at the house, and frankly, I’m exhausted.
Wrapping paper, scissors, Scotch tape, ribbon, kittie treats…
Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) is particularly prone to interrupting the task-driven moment; and distracting lengths of string and the occasional offering of bits of tuna have been offered in the spirit of advancing human/kitty relations with all digits intact.
But just like last year – and every year, now that I think of it – I’ve come across a problem: boxes.
I live in a fairly small place, the second floor of a lovely duplex built in 1904. You may not be aware of this, but apparently people at the turn of the last century didn’t own anything, and so my little place has a total of two closets.
Normally, this suits me, as the tiny and inexplicably hairy nomad in my head is continually urging me to get rid of things, to lighten the load in case I have to hit the road in a hurry.
Because you never know when you'll find yourself on the lam.
So while I spend the bulk of the year de-cluttering, sometime around the second week of December I start to realize that all the little things I’ve bought require disguises.
Wrapping, say, a hammer in the shape of a hammer is only funny on TV.
That thing really needs a box.
And it begins: the box hunt.
I’ve ransacked the house and have so far emptied boxes of microwaveable popcorn, saltine crackers, and even a metal tin of those fabulous little Danish Butter Cookies.
Believe me when I tell you that all of those delicious little cookies have found a home.
That reminds me. Note to self: stop eating delicious little cookies.
And so the oddly-boxed pile under the Christmas tree grows, as does the anticipation of giving gifts to those I love.
Ladies and gentlemen, we are mere days away from Christmas.
And I am giddy.
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