So. When I unpacked the tree-topper angel, her right arm had come unglued. I know that in this house, somewhere, sitting unopened and dusty, are at least a million bottles of every kind of glue known to mankind. Since I couldn’t find any of them, or remember where I’d put them, Hub went out and bought some more. He didn’t buy MY kind of glue, though; he bought HIS kind of glue. My kind of glue is Elmer’s glue, peaceful, white, fast-drying, clear-drying glue that peels off your fingertips in long curls and impresses the kid in the next desk over. . . . Oh wait, that was a while ago. Ahem. I would never do that now. No.

He brought home super glue. The kind that says, “Be careful or you will never be able to let go of this angel arm again and will have to live out your life with this heavenly appendage forever dangling from your fingers.” The kind that says, “If accidentally swallowed, we hope your funeral plans are pre-made and your casket is already chosen.”

I am not good with glue. My track record with glue is not good. When I can even find some, that is.

Today, the broken angel sitting on the coffee table seemed to reproach me for my procrastininity, so I opened the package of super glue, activated it with a sharp object, and put a tiny drop on the angel arm. It came out like water, and the arm fell right back off when I pressed it to the watery dot.

I had to sit there and hold the angel’s arm and wait for the glue to dry. Hah. Super glue indeed. Ten minutes later, she was on the mend. Elmer could have done it in five. That’s no bull.

So then while I had the tube pricked and dripping (I love to mess with Google) I looked around for other things to mend. I found a few, and voila, fixed.

Have I mastered the tao of super glue? I’ll let you know as soon as I can figure out how to get this dried pore-closing stuff off my fingers. I didn’t even know I’d dripped it on myself till I started typing and noticed the vague numbness.

Every year I vow to count our Hallmark ornaments and I always forget. I forgot this year, too. I’ve been collecting them since 1973 (yes, I know, it’s before most of you were BORN) and they’ve really accumulated. I love each and every one. I can’t afford to buy them any more; I manage two or three now, but my tree is classy and different and I love it. I’ve got a picture of last year’s tree on my Flickr, and as soon as I get Fifi back on the top, I’ll snap this year’s tree.

All the Christmas angels in this house have names. Belle named them when she was two years old. She gave them “the most beautiful names I ever heard in the WORLD!” So, our tree-topper angel is Fifi. The angels in the big creche are Mimi and Zsa Zsa.

Don’t look at me. We hardly ever watched television even back in those days.

She must have picked that up from Hollywood Squares over at Mom’s house. That, and her propensity for calling every bottle in the bathroom cabinet “Porcelana” and searching strangers’ arms for signs of age spots.