This is how the morning began, just past 6: Sounds of a big truck backing up--beep, beep, beep-- and then pulling forward and then backing--more beeps--like it was parking in a tight spot. Which is was, right across our driveway.
Our neighbors the hedge fund manager and his wife are hosting their annual family Christmas party, which involves a giant tent, tables, chairs, glassware, cases of wine, and God knows what else. A lot of it is rolled up their long driveway in metal cases that make a racket as they go. This will go on for hours.
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| Event décor within |
Quilt first:
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| Semi-controlled chaos |
Jerry says he's never heard as much profanity coming from my studio. I'm making it up as I go, many pitfalls.
By 9, I'd listened to a lot of Motown, Carol King, and "The King and I". Deborah Kerr is right this minute singing, "Whistle a Happy Tune." (Oh, right, Deborah!)
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A few days ago, I realized I've seen no package deliveries addressed to Jerry. Where were my presents? I'd given him a list of things I'd like for Christmas, complete with 800 numbers (he can't do online ordering, phobic). I heard him reading his Visa number over the phone some time ago, so I knew he'd ordered. But where were they?
This made me anxious. What would happen Christmas morning? Why wasn't he worried?
"Did you remember to order my presents?" I asked.
"Is Christmas coming?"
"Yes, it is! What about my presents?"
"Presents?"
"Nothing's been delivered."
"Really?" He didn't seem worried. In fact, he looked amused.
One afternoon when he was out, I came THIS CLOSE to inspecting the closet in his study, but I thought that would be juvenile.
I told him this. He looked more amused.
Two days ago I saw a scrap of wrapping paper on the floor of his study. He'd been wrapping! Things were looking up. (Does Christmas make everyone a big baby? One year he gave me a big button to wear that said, "Where's My Present?")
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| Have managed to finish gift-wrapping, with the help of Prosecco and "Sleepless in Seattle" |
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Dept. of Jumping to Paranoid Conclusions: I'm one of those people who shopped at Target during the period when credit and debit card numbers were stolen. On Saturday I studied my Visa bill online. There was a weird charge I was sure wasn't made by me. To Best Buy.
I called the number: It was the Geek Squad. Never use them. I hung up.
Called the credit card company. Waited 16 minutes on hold, during which I took a shower while Jerry babysat the phone, which was on speaker phone.
Finally, post-shower, I heard a woman say her name, and I clicked back to non-speaker. I explained the situation. She assured me three times that I wouldn't be liable for charges. Then, she switched me over to the Stolen Card Department.
A guy who sounded like a nervous person trying to be reassuring said he could help me. Was I sure that charge wasn't mine?
"Oh, yes," I said. "Certain."
He tapped away on a computer for a long time.
"This charge has been made to your credit card every month for a year," he said, finally.
"What?"
"It has to do with your cell phone purchase," he said.
I apologized madly and called the Geek Squad. The charge was for some sort of warranty I'd forgotten I'd signed up for. I cancelled it on the spot.
What a dope.
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My friend Mabry brought over a big bag of hand-knit scarves and hats to distribute at the Pantry today. I'm trying to figure out how to do that without causing a riot.
I've got the new aprons for the volunteers--veggie print or stripes. I'm trying to decide if we should wear our cheery aprons AND a hat and scarf--to model them for clients. God forbid we should look ridiculous.
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I'm pretty sure Deborah Kerr didn't hear that from the King, but then she did get to wear that GIANT skirt.
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