It’s January ninth, and almost all evidence of Christmas and it’s ancillary days are gone from my sight. The fabulously decorated tree has been removed and stored away in the shed, exposing numerous dried puddles of cat puke that Carlotta has left behind, like a present to be unwrapped later by me. And as the tree was being taken down, large balls of dog hair came rolling out from behind it like so many tumble weeds. It’s hard to clean behind a Christmas Tree.
The strings of lights, both indoors and out, have been either rolled up and boxed, or when Mark isn’t looking, cut down and thrown away. Shards of broken ornaments that Molly and Carlotta had knocked down, and stray wire ornament hangers waiting to ambush me while walking barefoot, have been swept up.
All the leftover holiday treats turning green in the refrigerator have been thrown out (I still have plenty of holiday wine left in there). The Christmas candies that Mark left out for visitors have turned into solid blocks of goo here in the South Florida humidity, so they also have been tossed.
Now all I have to do is find a place to store all of Mark’s Christmas crap that has invaded my office, pay the electric bill for Mark’s holiday salute to Thomas Edison and it's over until next October.