Or not. It's not looking like Christmas here, for yet another day. I'm starting to get really anxious about it now. I am ready to move on this, but I can't put the tree up by myself. Not anymore, now that I can't lift heavy things and then still function afterwards.
I got the space ready. Between the two of us, we moved the 100 year old school bench, sorted through plants that had been brought inside, and got it half cleared. I finished it this morning, taking the pots that held annuals that died out to store in the garage, repotting a struggling sansevieria and moving it and other houseplants to my dressing room, vacuuming (especially removing potting soil that Harvey spread around), sorting all the junk mail off the key table, and cleaning up previously hidden cat vomit.
It's all ready for a tree. It's begging for lights -- more lights, as there are always blue and white fairy lights in the ficus tree. Instead, the space is disturbingly open. It makes me feel vulnerable, even more like I'm on a stage facing the street when that giant picture window is unobscured. It's colder, too, which is sad because we spent big bucks on replacing the window when we first moved in, to get a better insulated one. I am uncomfortable with the big vacant space.
Maybe I need to go full Oliver on Mr S-P, and wrap myself in tinsel and battery operated lights, and plead with outstretched hands, "Please, sir, I want a tree." We already have it. I just can't trim it and move it. This has gone on long enough!
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