And so this is Christmas

I can hardly believe that Christmas is over for another year.

When I was little, I’d spend a great deal of the year wishing that Christmas would hurry up and arrive, and then when it finally did, the day would drag on after lunch when all the presents were open and everybody was napping – and I’d wish the day would end. Now, it astounds me how quickly Christmas comes and goes, and I wish that the year, and Christmas Day itself, would slow down.

This Christmas was the first year that Mr Posy and I were actually living together, and it was the first in a few years that we were actually in PosyTown for Christmas. The last couple of years we spent Christmas in Sunny Sydney, and the year before that we spent our Christmas in New York City. It was also the first year in many, many years that both Mr Posy’s and my family were all in PosyTown for Christmas.

It took me a little longer than usual to get into the Christmas Spirit this year, but by the time Christmas Eve rolled around, I had gorged on Christmas carols and candy canes and Marshmallow Santas and Magical Popping Elves. I was ready.

Christmas Eve was an early-mark from work, being pampered by my hairdresser, sneaky cocktails with a good friend, wrapping the last of the presents, and helping watching Mr Posy prepare Christmas Day desserts (Nigella’s Chocolate Mousse Cake, and Nigella’s Molten Chocolate Babycakes). I had intended to go to Midnight Mass, but I… fell asleep. Ahem.

I woke early on Christmas Day. Mr Posy woke even earlier than I did, and went to the Greek Church with his parents. I went to the pool and smashed out some laps. By 10am, Mr Posy and I were sitting down to Ricotta Hotcakes with Banana and Honeycomb Butter, coffee (love you, Nespresso), and Miracle on 34th Street. By 10.30 am, Mr Posy was begging to open presents.

Gifts, just begging to be unwrapped..

“It’s 10.30 am, why haven’t we opened presents yet? We’ve had breakfast, and we’re dressed! Can we open presents now?”

You’d think he was 10 years old again. I knew that in less than fifteen minutes, our presents would be open, the floor would be strewn with gift wrap, and that would be the end to the first part of the day. Our part of the day. I wanted to savour it.

But I also wanted to unwrap the verylargegift with my name on it.

Hello, lover.

I was particularly spoilt this year. Mr Posy Santa bought me a KitchenAid. In red (because everybody knows red goes faster). I suspect that Santa’s new love for cooking may have been the motive driving force behind my gift. I just love it! I also received a  lovely Hermès Twilly.

Soon after, it was time to visit Mr Posy’s family (who we all remember live across the road). Mr Posy’s sister-in-law had put on quite a feast. I monopolised Niece Posy for most of the afternoon – she’s six months old now, and when she smiles at me, my heart aches. She’s just beautiful. After a couple of cocktails, too much lamb, Mr Posy’s Chocolate Mousse Cake, and more presents, it was time to move on to the final instalment of the day – with my family.

Despite my mum being quite sick the past couple of months, she really outdid herself this Christmas. She made an amazing roast dinner, and she’d bought presents for everybody – including my brother’s two “orphan” workmates.

I bought Mum an Hermès scarf for Christmas, which she loved – especially as her hair started falling out a day or so prior (but not noticeably so).

Dinner was a little awkward, but it was always going to be this year. Mr Posy’s Molten Chocolate Babycakes went down a treat, although I was so stuffed that I managed to only eat half my serve.

As has become Christmas tradition for Mr Posy and me, the day ended with National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. And I was sure I wouldn’t need to eat again for a week.

I cannot believe that today is New Year’s Eve-Eve.

The Watermelon Saga

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It’s 9.09 pm. The house is all closed up. I’m settled in on the couch, watching yet another episode of The Secret Life of the American Teenager (so is Mr Posy, but he wont admit that) when the doorbell rings.

It can only be one person. Mr Posy looks out the front window – “It’s Ma”. I mutter something about only seeing her half an hour earlier at the hospital, and can’t she see that the doors are closed and the lights are off?

“She’s holding a watermelon.”

Mr Posy unlocks the door, and in a swift manoeuvre while he’s picking up PosyDog to stop her from escaping, in barges MIL, not only carrying a watermelon, but also a new umbrella and a can of spray deodorant.

I sit steadfastly on the couch while she bangs around in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, checking the fridge and freezer (full) to make sure that I’m feeding her son adequately, and tsking over the unfolded laundry. I’m sure the bottle of Veuve in the fridge pleases her non-drinking self no end. I’m sure she’ll be even more pleased when I turn up at the hospital with said bottle of Fizz to pour down my tired, breastfeeding SIL’s throat to celebrate the arrival of Niece Posy.

“Kalinihta {ka-lee neek-tah}”, she says, hurrying past with an armful of plates and pots, which have somehow made it into my kitchen over the course of the week, courtesy of her coddling and food-pushing.

“Good night”, I reply, with a smile on my face, charming as always, silently cursing her supernatural ability to constantly interrupt during the most crucial points of my shows.

My Life is a Sitcom

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“Marriage is like a tense, unfunny version of Everybody Loves Raymond, only it doesn’t last 22 minutes. It lasts forever.”
– Pete, Knocked Up

Mr Posy’s verygreekfamily live across the street. From us.

Late one night I was flicking through channels on the TV (something I rarely do – as we usually download from iTunes), eventually settling on Knocked Up. When I heard Pete compare marriage to a once-popular sitcom, I couldn’t help but laugh. Not about the marriage part, as Mr Posy and I are yet to tie the knot (we’re engaged, but living in sin – tsk, tsk), but because over the past six months I’ve often joked that if my life were a sitcom, it would be called Everybody Loves Mr Posy. But hopefully funnier. To everybody but me, at least.

About this time last year, Mr Posy’s parents sold us their house. That they had literally built with their own hands. My in-laws no longer needed such a large home – they wanted to downsize and move into a flat a few suburbs away, but they wanted to keep the house in the family. I was not too excited at the prospect at owning Mr Posy’s family home; I knew that there would be many problems, and that my in-laws would have trouble separating themselves from the idea that the house was no longer their own. However in the end, I had to admit defeat. It would be a means to an end – our golden ticket out of Posytown.

A few months later, and the in-laws still hadn’t moved out of the house – I was still living with my mum, refusing to move in with Mr Posy until his parents vacated the premises. Then, Mr Posy’s older brother moved from interstate with his wife, asking if they could crash at the house for just a few weeks. Fast-forward four months, and they were all still in the house. In MY house. That I still hadn’t moved in to. I was furious! It had been eight months since settlement – we were paying the mortgage (and I was also paying my parents a considerable amount in ‘rent’) – it was time for his family to move out.

My Posy rang me with “good news” a couple of days later – his Ma had found a place for my brother-in-law to rent. … And Mr Posy’s parents would move in with my BIL and his wife!

“Where is this new place?” I queried.
“Well,” Mr Posy replied, “It’s close.”
“How close?”
“Across-the-street-close.”

I was not particularly impressed that I would be able to wave to my in-laws from my front patio, but I was glad that I could finally move in with Mr Posy.

Before Mr Posy’s Ma moved out, she told him that we were to come to dinner each night. When Mr Posy told her that that would not be happening, she retorted that we were to come across the street to collect the dinner that she would make for us, and we could eat at it at our house. Failing that, we could give her a key so that she could come to our house to cook dinner each day while we were at work. When Mr Posy told her that we would be cooking our own dinner each night, she cried. She also cried when Mr Posy told her that, no, we would not be delivering our laundry for her to do, nor would we be giving her a key so that she could come and clean our house while we were at work.

The evening that I moved in, she was over at our place before I could even get out of the car, and about halfway through moving she informed Mr Posy (who translated for me) that we were tired, and demanded that we rest. The next evening she turned up on our doorstop in tears, insisting that Mr Posy take the meal she had cooked.

Perhaps when deciding on a pseudonym for my blog, I should have called myself “Debra”, and Mr Posy, “Raymond”.

The parallels between my life and that blasted sitcom are uncanny. But at least Everybody Loves Raymond only lasts 22 minutes.