Last night my mother showed me what she was sending out as Christmas cards this year. They were home made. Yes, my mother makes home made Christmas cards. And still gets offended when I call her Martha.

I wish I could describe to you the grotesque monument to Christmas this house becomes each December. I was musing the other day that if we had a "count the Santas" contest on Christmas Eve, no one would be able to do it.

The problem is, I can't really complain, because the house is beautiful. Overdone, yes, but somehow she manages to make it not at all tacky. We have (I'm not kidding here) 3 Christmas trees up. One is a tall one (where the presents will go) that is covered with white lights, some sort of garland that has red papier-mache stars, and more Santa ornaments than 20 Christmas stores could carry. I shit you not.

Our main bathroom, which is painted a shade of pink that my aunt once compared to "the inside of a vagina," is the Angel Room (tm). Mom just brought another angel home last night to add to the collection. It's a 4x7 foot room that now contains 16 angels. Did I mention Mom's an atheist?

Then, on our oak buffet, we have 2 smaller trees, each covered with gold, silver and glass ornaments in a stars/moons/suns theme. Every single surface is covered with Mom's home made Santas (she buys antique choocolate molds and creates them herself). She makes many of the ornaments for the trees, too. This is, of course, in between the times she's growing her fabulous roses and vegetable garden, running 2 veterinary hospitals, working out at the gym, and being the chairperson of the local Parks and Rec district.

Christine says the house belongs in Better Homes and Gardens or some such. Maybe it's Mom's art degree, but she really does have a knack for making the house look wonderful, tasteful, and most of all, more ready for Christmas than any house has ever been.

My mother is Martha Stewart. And people wonder why I'm a perfectionist. Help.

Love and Tinsel,

Blaise
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