The jingle bells no longer rock at The Compound’s main gate.
Piss on the fir and call in the dawgs. The Christmas-New Year’s holiday is done and dusted.
Herself is on a mission this morning, breaking down all the holiday decorations and returning them to their closet.
The fake tree is closet-bound.
Later I’ll unplug the multicolored strand that’s a component of the outdoor lights encircling our courtyard tree. We use the white strand year round, ’cause having little dangly lights strung around and about to no particular purpose is kind of a New Mexico thing.
All this rooting around in closets is guaranteed to trigger a flurry of eBaying as useless items come to light.
“What’s this?”
“Beats me.”
“Can I sell it?”
“I dunno, can you?”
The answer to this last is, “Yes,” because Herself can sell anything. She could sell an anvil to a drowning man.
If my attention drifts for a nanosecond she will sell the office chair right out from under me. That chair and its occupant are not big earners lately. And they’re not cute, like the cat. They’re battered and stained and they smell like canned farts and broken dreams.
And they never purr.
Thus, sacrifices must be made. Propitiate the goddess. Quick, find some extraneous electronica to place upon her altar.
Not the outdoor lighting, though. It’s still New Mexico.
• One final holiday gift: Arlo and his new(ish) bride.
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