To: Rambi who wrote (4689 ) 12/2/1997 1:53:00 PM From: Jacques Chitte Read Replies (1) | Respond to
This morning, the Ladies (after delicately piloting Their domed mass onto half the couch) looked at me soulfully and cast a plea adrift onto the fabric of the Cosmos. I can feel it - the Force is contracting, focusing -- here comes the shockwave -- "Will we have a Christmas tree this year?" Usually Nestmate is the dedicated decorating enthusiast. Getting the tree (Polywood(tm)!!) down from its loftside oubliette, or even deploying our growing collection of seasonal froth and jetsam onto its neoneedles, isn't the problem. It's stowing all the goodies, which a cruel and cpricious Nature will have happen just as Their water breaks or something. Now I know nothing of where and how to compact and tesselate and supercoil the great wads of expanded festive spindrift. And it needs to be done Correctly, by the strict precepts of some mysterious archaeofeminine Pagan rite, or it won't fit into its allotted pair of sleek cardboard boxes. Oh, I can make it fit, but at great peril to the continued integrity of the larger blown-glass items. I'll probably have to resort to the masculine expedient of cheating with duct tape. And I can just see it - next year, again-singular Spouse will be dandling Firstborn Daughter, beginning the timeless transfer of the Mystery from mother to daughter, inspecting the hopelessly masculine mare's-nest of cords, ribbons and shardwork. The two will share a wordless consensus on this sad circumstance. And little Helen will look my way, her huge compelling eyes incapable of concealing the first sentiment of Disdain/Pity for Men, even the previously infallible domestic Divine Principle known as Dada.
