Time for a guest post!

I originally had planned this blog post to be another apology letter to the Roomstress due to my.... somewhat over-zealousness in regards to Christmas decorating. And after a long day of me joyfully decking the halls with a somewhat luke-warm Roomstress she looked at me very seriously and said "I think it's time we talked about -" (Megan here; my mind racing - talk about WHAT? Moving out? Taking down all the holiday decorations? Not living together next year? WHAT WHAT WHAT do we have to talk about?) " - me doing a guest post on your blog." (Megan here; WHEW. Ok. Fair enough.)

So here you go. Below is the Roomstress's account of our holiday decorating day. Enjoy!

It was last Saturday, a day we had set aside for Christmas decorating, when I  realized the time had finally come…for a guest post. Because people need to know about this. (Yeah. I'm not sure they do. But I digress.)

Now, since we've had 200+ Santa Clauses adorning our loft since the day after Halloween, I might be forgiven for assuming that “Christmas decorating” would consist of going to Lowe’s to purchase a modest and appropriately sized tree and putting a few lights and ornaments on it (pfffft.) and then relaxing with a festive adult beverage in honor of the season. (oh, yesplease!) In retrospect, this assumption was clearly a case of pathological denial on my part.

So last Saturday, not being a morning person, I stumbled out of bed and wandered blindly to the kitchen to get a glass of water, only to find that the cupboards were completely empty of glassware. “That’s odd,” I thought. “I’m sure we just unloaded the dishwasher yesterday.” So I looked in the dishwasher and found it full…of Christmas glassware.

That’s about the time I became aware of the lightning fast skittering of bunny-slippered feet (they are CATS, Roomstress!) racing back and forth behind me. I turned to catch a glimpse of my roommate, Christmas pajamas flapping, blond curls streaming behind her, as she zipped about bedecking everything in sight. Zip! Nativity set on the shelf. Zip! Christmas quilt and pillows on the chairs. Zip! Garland wrapped around my head.

Etc.

I retreated from the line of flight to the kitchen table and began to sip my water and get used to being conscious again, which always takes me awhile. Megan came to perch on a kitchen stool facing me. With a feverish gleam in her eyes that I can only assume was Christmas spirit, she spoke:

“So I told you about the Santas,” she began and paused with a sheepish look on her face. Then in a rush: “But I didn’t mention the snowman collection. Or the nutcracker collection. Or the angel collection. Ok bye.” Then she was off again in a whirl of golden locks and festive jammies.

But still, somehow, I had foolish hopes that the tree, at least, would be a modest affair. So at Lowes, when we made our way out to the trees (after a suitable time spent being made to admire all the Christmas decorations) I sought out the 5 footers and turned to point out to Megan their cute and manageable smallness, but she was not there. She stood down the aisle with her hands clasped to her heart gazing in rapture at a (I believe the technical term is) ginormous tree. She turned to me with wide glittering eyes and an entranced smile and said breathlessly, “This one!” pointing to an alpine monster.

Let me gloss over here the wrestling match to fit an approximately 800 foot tree into the trunk of a Jetta (told you it would fit), or the 20 mph hour drive down Washington Pike leading a parade of angry drivers (they need to work on patience), or the trek to drag it up to the loft (yea for elevators!), or the somewhat alarming way she enthusiastically hacked off some quite thick limbs with needle-nosed pliers. (hey, whatever works, amiright?)

Cut to the next day at brunch, as I shared the story with our guests. Megan took a brief break from gazing lovingly at our bedecked and dazzling tree to glower at us over her shoulder and say, “So sorry for the joy in my heart, y’all.”

And, well, that’s the thing. As her mother pointed out, she does come by it honestly. She is, after all, the granddaughter of a man who spent several days every year dressed as Santa, sitting in a sleigh in his front yard, welcoming all comers just for sheer enjoyment of it. So, as a roommate, I accept the 200+ Santas as a family heritage of joy, generosity, and celebration. I will carry the two crates of Christmas Spode dinnerware upstairs by myself while she makes potato soup for Santa parade revelers as my contribution to Christmas cheer. I will master the (to my mind, superfluous) use of a knife for eating bread. At this time of year, when there is a tendency to look back and reflect, I must admit, one thing about Megan, life is never dull. And it’s chocked full of more joy and laughter than you can shake a stick at, all year long. (I think it's also referred to as Stockholm Syndrome.)

So, this morning, after a week of more Christmas coming out of the woodwork every day (I promise, this is it!), I sipped my tea out of a Spode teacup and I remarked that it was actually quite pleasant to watch the mistletoe appear on the side of the cup as the tea disappeared. I felt vaguely cheery for a Monday (or, let’s face it, any day).

“The brainwashing is working!” Megan joked.

Well, being brainwashed to have joy in your heart, it could be worse, I thought.

Unless…this is just step one to getting me on board with her plan to kidnap Santa and keep him in the bathtub. It would make sense, as I AM the one with the tub.

Oh crap….