Blessed Art Thou Among Conch Shells

Oh!  A shell ornament - how sweet. If I put it to my ear, I wonder if I can hear the sea.

I'll just turn it around here and . . . hang about, who's in here? There seems to be a little . . . 

The archangel Gabriel! What are you doing? Get out of there.

leave me alone

Valium Angel

I wanted to buy Valium Angel so bad. So, so bad. She's the best tree topper I've seen so far. She's got puffy, floppy arms! She can't keep her head up! She's so big, you could put her on your head!

And I very likely would have put her on my head, but Mrs. Elfenstein uttered the four most terrifying words anyone can say in a Thrift Store:

it might have bedbugs

sigh. Back on the shelf.

Maybe next time, Valium Angel. At least I have my pictures to remind me of what could have been...

Fiddlin’ Angel

This is Mrs. Elfenstein’s favorite ornament, hands down. Every time we put it on the tree, she sings “fiddlin’ angel!” with pure joy.

Angels fiddle. It’s a well-known fact. And this special little lady is fiddlin’ from inside a spectacular, gold, glitter-encrusted cutaway ball. Just as it is in Heaven.

We’re not sure what specifically is on the playlist, but I like to think it’s mostly just variations of Cotton Eyed Joe.

This May be What Happened to Baby Jane

When we moved from the Farm to our new home, we seem to have misplaced a stash of ornaments. Old Troll is missing, along with the Styrofoam Snowman Family, which is really sad because Wall-Eyed Styrofoam Snowman has served as our tree topper the past three Christmases.  This is our first Christmas in our first new house, and we had to have an Awesome topper for the charmingly wonky tree we bought.
What on earth would Mrs. Elfenstein and I do without Goodwill?

Wall-Eyed Styrofoam Snowman may be lost, but Unamused Angel now stands tall and proud and, apparently, unimpressed, atop our tree.

We aren’t super sure what it is that’s making her so uptight. Maybe it’s her Mrs. Havisham-style gown, or her receding hairline (and at such a young age!). Perhaps the fact that her arms do not bend but only move up and down as a unit. Maybe it’s the constant discomfort of a spiny tree trunk in the, er, Eisenhower Tunnel. . . (cough, cough).

Regardless of her actual botheration, this little lady’s fists are clenched so tight she could make diamonds if we gave her coal. Also assuming we can pry her fingers open. Which we can’t. Because they’re fused to her palms.

 Christmas'll make you want to shoot someone in the face.