All over the blogosphere people are discovering that we've gotten away from the true meaning of Christmas by going hog wild on buying presents. Try not to be too shocked.
I'm sounding a tad cranky, aren't I? You know why? That chair is still here. I went to the trouble last night of moving a different chair from the living room into the den, a chair that coordinates beautifully with my new flowery bower of an armchair; and I put the ugly navy thing into the center of the room, in order to emphasize the fact that there really is no place for it in our home. So I come back from Knit Night tonight to find Larry sitting in it, in the middle of the room. Happy. Apparently, subtlety is lost on him.
Plus, I officially have bronchitis. And the house is a mess. And I have people coming over for Christmas dinner.
No mouse poop in my silverware drawers this morning, though. That's a good sign, isn't it? Although now I'm wondering whether I'm suffering from a hanta virus due to ingesting traces of rodent feces from my eating utensils.
And am I obligated to disclose the mouse problem to prospective dinner guests? Doing that would certainly give us a nice, quiet Christmas, now wouldn't it? Or it would at least give me a good excuse to have us eating off of conveniently disposable (and sanitary) paper and plastic. That may just be the silver lining to this rodent infestation.