Then, I tinkered around with my car–filling up some fluids it was low on–and went to lunch with Jesse. My afternoon to-do list: hit Wal-Mart for some closet-organization-accessories, start the mind-numbingly ridiculous paperwork process otherwise known as transferring retirement money from one place to another, and organize our bedroom closet.

After spending far too much time waiting on hold on the phone with multiple organizations, I finally began to tackle the closet. I took “before” pictures, but am now afraid to post them. Let’s just say: it was bad. Really bad.

I took most everything out, sorted it, pulled out heaps of clothes I don’t wear anymore, and took all the shoes out of their shoe boxes and put them into the shoe organizers I bought at Wal-Mart. One of them was a regular old on-the-floor organizer, but the other fit right over the door. Brilliant! It freed up so much space! I eventually got everything back into the closet. What a feeling of satisfaction! What joy at admiring the neat, everything-in-its-place look of a freshly organized closet! What an accomplishment!

Quite satisfied with myself, I turned off the closet light and shut the door. Except the door wouldn’t shut. I looked down, expecting a stray shoe or box or cat, but the floor was clear. I tried to shut the door again. Clunk.

It was the shoe rack. The wonderful, brilliant, perfect, over-the-door shoe organizer. The door won’t shut if shoes are actually in said organizer.

Hum.

I’m going to wait to despair until Jesse gets home. If he can’t fix it, I think I’ll just wail.

First, let me begin by saying how much I absolutely adore you. Really, I do. And this year doubly so, because I was so bummed at being all alone for Thanksgiving, and then you came along, December, with all your non-Thanksgiving-themed merchandise, music, and festivities—and, with the hope of seeing family at the end of the month. You showed up just in time.

I love how gaudy you are. None of those muted fall colors of Thanksgiving, the depressing browns and mustard yellows that only reminded me of how wrong it felt to be celebrating without our families. How I welcomed your candy-apple reds and neon greens! How I loved setting out the little dancing mouse Becki gave us one year, how adorable I found him, all red-scarfed and holding a string of flashing lights. I love our mismatched outdoor decorations, the kitschy joke ornaments indoors, the multiple nativity scenes.

And the TV! Movies and shows so bad we’d never dream of watching them at any other time of year. But during you, December, they’re lovely and make us think about being nine again. I even like your music; Jesse and I sing loudly and off-key whenever we’re driving, and it just lifts the mood. (Though I’ll admit to changing the station when anything resembling “The Christmas Shoes” comes on—even I have my limits.) I can’t forget the food, either. I’ve eaten my weight in your goodies, and my blood sugar complains, but do I listen? No, I think not.

But, December, it occurs to me that there is only so much celebrating one month can handle all on its own. And this year, we may have reached that limit.

Take the Christmas parties. For Jesse’s work alone, we will have attended three separate Christmas parties. Three! Now, if he were receiving three salaries, that would be something else entirely. Add the volunteer position he has, and that’s another party. Don’t forget the small group one next week, too.

Don’t get me wrong—I love parties. Especially those that involve overeating cheesy side dishes and visiting houses decorated in bold colors. Plus, I’ve gotten to trot out my leopard-print heels for at least one of the bashes. But…couldn’t we spread them out a bit? You wouldn’t mind too much, would you, December? Sharing some of your parties with, say, March? I know she has St. Patrick’s Day, but so far, North Carolinians don’t seem to be all about the green-without-red holidays. Except the college students, that is. And Easter’s so inconsistent. March one year. April the next. I’ve got my birthday in May, but there’s just this sad little lag between Valentine’s Day and summer. Those months could use some tinsel, wouldn’t you say? And August. Really? What is there to celebrate in August? As someone without school-aged children (or any children, for that matter), and who no longer pays tuition of any kind, August is just a dry, hot month with a whopping electric bill. I sure could use a gift exchange then.

At any rate, December, you’re still my favorite month of the year. And, yes, excess is part of your charm. So, I’ll go straighten my hair tonight and maybe experiment with purple tights and enjoy another evening of merrymaking with friends, all thanks to you. But, next year, let’s think about slowing it down just a bit, shall we? Thanks.

Love,
Erin

Friday, we got up early and went Black Friday shopping. We were in desperate need of a new vacuum, and the one I wanted came with a Sears gift card that became my Christmas present (hence the outrageous heels, which I wore nearly all day Sunday). After shopping, we came home and fell fast asleep for several hours, waking up in time to eat lunch and string lights outside. Dinner was pizza and Coke from Papa John’s (the day after Thanksgiving is for leftovers, not for cooking! So, in the absence of leftovers, it was for ordering pizza). It was fun—we haven’t ordered pizza just the two of us in a while, and even though I started the holiday bemoaning the fact that we were all by ourselves, I was at this point beginning to enjoy just being with Jesse. It’s nice when ordering pizza can feel a bit adventurous, a bit rebellious.

After dinner Friday, we put up the tree while watching kids’ movies on TV. Oliver has only climbed the tree once so far and has not managed to take it down. Saturday, we had Brandon and Kara over for dinner and a movie (I snuck the green bean casserole in, though I spared them the turkey, but really only because it was still frozen).

Over the weekend, I continued my cleaning quest, and now I’ve vacuumed the whole house (except for Jesse’s office), including the baseboards and under the stove and refrigerator, as much as I could. I cleaned the ceiling fans and the bathrooms and got caught up on my filing (major undertaking there), organized my coupons, broke out the flannel sheets. Vacuumed again. And again. If we had holiday weekends at home every month, my house would sparkle it would be so clean.

Sunday, we had a big Southern lunch at Brandon and Kara’s—fried venison, cooked carrots, and rice and gravy. I never knew you could put gravy on top of rice, but apparently you can. It was all delicious. Oh, and Kara made chocolate sugar cookies that were absolutely addictive. I found myself craving them today, and I emailed her asking for the recipe.

After church Sunday night, we went over to the Paschals’ adorable new house and ate ham sandwiches and popcorn. I helped as Kirsten arranged her study, a lovely little room that has a half-library half-coffee shop feel to it. We all basked in the fact that they live just minutes down the road. On our way home, Jesse and I started timed the trip but forgot to look at the clock when we got home. Add to this the fact that Warren and Sharon (and Story!) will also be moving to our part of town in the near future (if the stars finally align), and we’re getting that much closer to the sitcom “everybody drops in and says witty things” ideal.

So, the holiday wasn’t what it usually is. But we weren’t as alone as we might have been, and there’s still a lot to be thankful for.

I’m still jonesing for some leftover turkey sandwiches, though…