November 14th, 2004

betterwatchout

AFLAME

I melted my credit card this weekend.

In the hot flame of a liquid tealight, oh yes.

Did you know that PartyLite puts inhibitor-releasers in their scented candles? You wouldn't believe how fast you can fill up an order form under the influence. :D

Thankfully, my girlfriends ordered enough to net me a decent discount on my score goodies. gale_storm brought some of the jewelry she is making and reebert and I both immediately pounced on pieces we declared were "MINE!" Dinner was good and well-received despite my forgetting to marinate the chicken due to craft-cackling with Gale and Marie.

reebert is a consummate party hostess. She got things going immediately, engaged the participants, joked and bantered, showed a real passion for the lovely products she was promoting and a great deal of knowledge as well. Her little touches were brilliant: the way she set out candles and accessories around the house, the way she wrapped tealights up as lollipops and handed them out, the game she adapted, the gifts she chose, everything. She did a superb job, and I can really recommend asking her to come help you host a PartyLite party.

The kids and I dropped Marie off at the train station this morning, and went to Farmor & Farfar's. After lunch, we (along with Farmor) headed to Vellingeblomman, a pre-Christmas ritual for everyone within 30 miles of the place. It's a huge nursery that puts on a Christmas display every year, and the place is full of just about every kind of tacky and not-so-tacky Christmas decoration you could ever imagine needing*...oh, and plants and flowers. And a live donkey and sheep in a creche, and a wandering Santa handing out pepperkakor. Every year Märta wants us to go so the kids can enjoy the Christmas displays and every year I think, "oh no" because I know that I will not be able to resist buying more Christmas ornaments. Oooh, shiny!

Note to Other Drivers on the Road: Go a little faster than the speed limit or get the hell out of my way.

*Although, nothing on the scale of the Christmas-stuff orgy that is Bronner's
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