LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW...BUT ONLY AN INCH OR TWO, PLEASE

 I awoke to the smell of gingerbread, the sounds of Christmas music, and the sight of Stewey in his little Martha Stewart craft apron affixing ribbons to pinecones.

"Mo-ther. Today is the day that you are going to put your shoes on, find a suitable pair of old lady sweatpants, fix your hair, and go outside to decorate the house for Christmas.  You've had a week and a half in the Happy Chair with your coloring book and your turkey sandwiches...now it's time to throw a little bit of good cheer around and hope that the neighbors will let us stay here another year."

I had decided to forego decorating this year, but Little Lord Fauntleroy made a good point.  My neighbors are subjected to me and my crazypants outfits and my bleary-eyed trek to fetch the paper every day, as well as the weekly argument we have as to what constitutes proper trash recepticle organization.  (For the record, I don't think that the recycling guy gives two hoots that I put the damn bin at the left edge of the driveway instead of the right edge, because he flings it smack dab into the middle, once emptied, regardless of where it starts out.)  

But this is Stewey we're talking about, so I quickly calculated that there would be NO peace to be had here at Chez Spinster until the annual tarting of the homestead was complete.

Two hours of grunting and sweating and cursing later:

I know.  Pitiful isn't it?  I think it looks much better after a few inches of snow.  And at night  And if you close one eye, stand on your left foot, and view the entire mess from the other side of town.

The good news is that my neighbors really do appreciate it, and I will too when I take You Know Who out for his evening constitutional.

I just hope he doesn't notice that the bows are all crooked and half the lights don't work.