So it begins, the excruciating five month festal torture that begins with Halloween and ends with Easter. Whoever thought the way to survive the long and brutal months of winter was with one never ending party must have been some kind of pagan. Oh right, they were pagans. And they believed you had to appease the gods with sacrifices so that the sun would return from its journey to warm the flat earth once more. But now that we know better, couldn't we just skip the agonizing over, buying and making of costumes, food and gifts? (What's that you say? I sound like a curmudgeon? Of course I do! Read the title.)
I would so much prefer whiling away the short, short days of winter with a large stack of books, cozied up to a fire. Preferably a non-greenhouse-gas-emitting, non-polluting, non-go-get-another-load-of-wood-from-the-snowy-cold-outdoors kind of fire. Like the sun. Right. I'd much rather spend the long, dark, cold days of winter on a nice warm sunny beach in like Puerto Rico or someplace (I don't even know where the good beaches are--the only beach I've been to that was remotely warm in winter was in Savannah, Georgia, and even though they had palm trees, I wouldn't exactly call it the tropics), as opposed to, say, staying up half the night making two pairs of (Lepidopterally correct) butterfly wings for the first in the string of pain-in-the-ass festivities.
Not that I'm not secretly delighted that I have two boys--who usually spend most of their time blasting me with their imaginary power rings--who want to dress up as butterflies for Halloween. And not that I don't also take secret delight in the Alex-P.-Keaton-esque money fabric bow-tie I made for Mr. Millionaire (who was threatened within an inch of his life when Tuesday night he casually mentioned he might change his mind and be an Army Guy). It's just that there are about a million things I'd rather be doing at 11:30 p.m. than sewing spots onto (Lepidopterally-correct) butterfly wings (if you've ever thought that an Eastern black swallowtail doesn't have a lot of detail, try making one out of felt. You'll reach whole new levels of appreciation for what happens inside of chrysalises). Numero uno: sleep.
The worst part is while I cut out my little blue and orange and yellow blobs (scales?) my mind races through the litanies of the next projects I'm compelled to take on: patching 15 pairs of pants so the twins have something to wear! A changeable daily calendar for daycare/preschool! Living room curtains! Fleece mittens for everyone I know! Patchwork scarves! Pants! Knit hats! Baby shoes! Ginger syrup (for our coughs)! Christmas cookies! Candy! Pie!
Because I. Just. Can't. Control. Myself.