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 small place, completely bereft of closets. I have hooks, drawers, and the space under my bed. Not surprisingly, I have failed to stock up on random boxes.
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.
You just 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 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.