Egg beaters on my living room floor (one in a puzzle box, do not bother to ask why), books scattered everywhere, socks in the kitchen, toys flung to kingdom come, wrapping paper rolls, wrapping paper scraps, boxes, ribbons, bows, desultory piles of lap rugs, shoes and scraps of clothing where tiny mites have discarded them in their journeys from one end of the house to the other- the grandbabies are visiting and it’s Christmas- plus, we can’t find our Christmas stockings (I’m sulking because the stocking is my favorite part of the gift giving, and the only bit I consider indispensable).
The FYG had another way of describing it. We returned home from Granny Tea’s traditional Christmas Eve dinner of tamales, walked into the living room and stood there, flabbergasted anew. She surveyed the disaster and said,
“Mom, I think we’ve been hit by burglars, and they clearly didn’t find what they were looking for.“