Mice Love Christmas Too

Deb: A wee mouse snuck into our crawlspace to see what the big Christmas fuss was all about. He climbed into the birchbark canoe of our beautiful Canadian Santa and he gobbled all the apples that were in a barrel in Santa’s canoe. I couldn’t help thinking of his conversation with the mousewife when he got home as he recounted to her his disappointment as he gnawed on styrofoam painted apples. He must have been miffed to say the least.

I guess, reeling from his apple disappointment, he decided to give the dried boxwood wreaths a nosh and cut through them like he was designing a maze. A mouse maze. Imagine his disappointment when he realized all too late that they were treated with a preservative to keep them looking fresh. Again he complains to Mrs. Mouse. I suppose it was at this point that he turned tail and scurried home, secure in the knowledge that humans were clearly overrating this holiday of Christmas. I shall not inform him to the contrary.

At this point, with apples and wreaths gobbled, or half gobbled, I thought I was forced to switch up our Christmas theme and quickly brought down all the old silver, making little vignettes with vintage trees and silver tea sets. So our theme this year became sliver and gold with tiny vintage trees as our guest stars. It’s nice to mix it up once in a while, don’t you think?

Thanks “The Mouses”. Merry Christmouse. Love, The Mochries. xo

Please enjoy the Christmas images below from our home before the mice start to think they are nice. 

Home Whatever Home

Barbara: I love my home. I certainly spend most of my time in it: I work in it, play in it, entertain, relax, gather my family in it. It is the centerpiece in my life. The constant. I love my home.

And yet, much like we sometimes do with other beloveds, I’ve started to take her for granted. It used to be that in the early days I would lavish her with attention. I’d make sure she had the latest lovelies. I would read everything I could on how to nurture her and bring out her best side (I had subscriptions to decorating mags, bought several other issues, and accumulated a pile of coffee-table books in her honour). I bought her flowers.

But I think I got tired of the responsibility. It takes energy to be an attentive partner. Energy and thoughtfulness and time. And I think, as the children got older and became more independent, that I wanted to put all of these energies into other things: namely, my writing projects. Into me. She was the one thing I felt I could let go.

Don’t get me wrong: she’s still lovely and clean and presents a good façade. These basics still occupy (a very small) part of my time. But she’s definitely getting shabby around the edges. Even things that I might have put off before because the money was allocated elsewhere (like in my kids), are only now being put off … because I don’t feel like it! If I want that sofa recovered, well, I’m going to have to take the pics, find the place, get on a waiting list, and send the sofas to refinishing school. But it’s too much work, I whine to myself, I don’t have the tiiiiiiiime. So instead, I continue to sprawl on the worn, busted seams, writing, reading, lolling, but not tending.

I’ve started to feel guilty about it. A few years ago, I kinda owned my negligence: this was my time, I didn’t have enough of it; I’d done so much on the house much over the years, it was time for a break; she was fine, fine with it, I tell you! I scoffed at the idea of restorations and changes; I let my magazine subscriptions lapse; I didn’t eye the gorgeous home deco books; I didn’t troll the net for decorating ideas; I didn’t envy my friends who were renovating. But, like I think happens in even very good relationships, one day your partner lets you know you’ve been too distracted, too negligent, and you wake up and take a good hard look at yourself in the mirror. “Good relationships are 2-way streets”, “You complete me”, “I see you”, “If I want this to work, I have to do the work.” I wasn’t living the platitudes anymore!

Now I just feel bad for the state of affairs. If my house were a person, she might cheat on me right about now. Or up and leave me. It’ll take some work, but I think I might need to woo her back. After all, I do love my home.

Deb: I think the difference between us in this regard is reflected in your comment, “But I think I got tired of the responsibility,” and I get it. But I think the difference between us is that the house care and feeding is such a joy to me, not a responsibility. It is another creative outlet in my life, something I do for recreation. I have always been crazy houseie! I remember painting and wallpapering my first apartment (and every single one that came after) and friends would question the fact that I was putting soooooooo much work and I guess money into something I rented. My response was always, “It’s my home!” As Barbara and I were saying a few minutes ago on the phone when we chatted about this, it is not only our home, but our workplace. And for me, if my head isn’t filled with the clutter and neediness of my home, my mind is free to work. Plus—COME ON! Who doesn’t love taking an old piece that has been in the cupboard and featuring it in a new place in the home? Or switching art around and seeing it in a whole new light? Or slipcovers for an old chesterfield??? Be still my heart. But be still in a perfectly appointed space!

Pillow Flunffing

Deb: I am a pillow flunffer from waaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy back. Before a guest comes into our home, I am flunffing for all I am worth. Very little gives me such satisfaction as seeing the couch pillows, window pillows, seat pillows, bed pillows and throw pillows flunffed up like they are on steroids. Done correctly, these pillows should look like animated studies in plumped perfection! It is always the last thing I do in my day, this flunffing.

When I was younger and learning at the hands of Mum, queen of flunffers, I found myself to be a skilled and willing student. I was born to flunff. My Mum would tell me how wonderful the pillows looked after I had flunffed, but sometimes I would catch her out of the corner of my eye working the re-flumff.

She saw me catch her once and she said that she had accidently sat on it and it had flattened. I pretended I believed her. We weren’t kidding each other. Because, as a grown woman, I know now how damned important the flunff is! Guess I always have.

Means everything to the welcome guest. I only wish that all my guests could arrive together and stand in a line looking at the flumff in all its glory. Because each time a guest sits down, I die a little. The flunff is fleeting. However, I won’t lie to you. I am not above re-flunffing when they go to the washroom. I have decided that instead of chalking it up to neurotic behaviour, I am going to look at the re-flunffing as I service to my guests. I mean, come on, who doesn’t like a good flunffing.

Barbara: I have to say, Deb, that when it comes to this subject, I know flunff-all.

No, my pillows wallow, unnoticed and flat, in the corners of my sofas and chairs. I don’t think I even acknowledge them if not for the scrunching they get when I need one tucked under an arm to read or sometimes in front of the TV under a sleepy head.

I wonder if my pillows resent me for it … After all, if they lived at Deb’s house (and let me confirm her pillows are resplendent and gloriously flunffed, masterpieces of the genre), they’d be fondled and caressed and stroked to pillowy satisfaction. I’m sure if they knew, my pillows would elbow me unceremoniously and say, “I’ll have what they’re having.”

But I must confess, I don’t care enough about it. Maybe I should blame my mother for not schooling me in the ways of the flunff. Maybe my children will blame me for not setting a good example.

All kidding aside, I must confess I’ve lost interest in the whole home décor thing. Yup, let me say it can happen. You can be a hard-core decorator all your adult life and then one day your passionate desire for new paint chips and lampshades and silk drapes can just fritter away, leaving you bored and indifferent. It’s not just your pillows that won’t be able to remember the last time they were flunffed. Should I worry about my low flunff-drive??? Do they make a pill for that?