While I was working a few moments ago, I heard a thump. Since living with Hollis, that no longer surprises or startles me anymore. The girl – all 125 pounds of her – makes more noise than a rhinoceroses walking on bubble wrap. It’s the random clapping, jumping, singing, slamming of drawers, pulling them completely out of the dresser, closing the toilet lid, leaving the bathroom fan on, opening and shutting the kitchen cabinets or allowing the refrigerator door to slam into the pantry door in hopes of Double-Stuf Oreos and a glass of milk to miraculously appear. And then it’s the smacking of the lips while eating.

So a simple and quiet “thud” isn’t enough to make me even miss a keystroke. But then I heard the tail-tell (pun certainly intended) sounds of Charlee’s ”I’ve-got-something-in-my-mouth-I’m-bringing-to-you-even-though-I’m-not-supposed-to-have-it” dance. Once she actually brought me every item I had in my purse, including my photo card for the camera.

So far tonight she’s brought me two presents from under the tree and one ribbon. I glanced over and caught a glimpse of red. And then blonde hair. The Christmas angel! I looked backward and sure enough, she had fallen from the top of the tree. I managed to extricate her from Charlee’s gentle grip with only a little bit of spit on that synthetic “Britney” hair. I used it to smooth down the cow-lick Charlee had left her.

The angel’s fall from grace wasn’t completely a surprise. She had been perched - like a drunken schoolgirl who tries too desperately to walk normally past the principal during her prom – on top of my tree. At first she would list a bit to the right, then I noticed this morning she was tilting to the front. I’ve had nights like that.

She has not taken well to the fake tree. With a real tree, it was easier maneuver her hollow cone-shaped cardboard body over a few branches. A bit of balancing did the trick. But perhaps the plastic “leaves” are too slick. I couldn’t get a firm seat. She slowly inched upward like brownie dough baking in the oven.

So why not get a tree-topper that better fits this tree? I have to say, I’ve never been particularly fond of this Christmas angel. I was used to a five-pointed beige star on top of my grandmother’s tree. I wanted one like it. But my husband, he of Nordic heritage, preferred non-lighted Christmas toppers. He was drawn to this blonde angel wearing a headdress of candles, a red dress covered by a white apron held together with a garland of red flowers. She has puffy white wings and her hands are mysteriously placed so they appear to be pulling taffy, if she had taffy. She is, of course, the Swedish Saint Lucia. Glenn, with all of his Norwegian humor, called her Saint Lena (if you haven’t heard of Ole and Lena jokes, Google them). Since I had purchased all of the other ornaments (his job was putting up the tree and taking it down), I let him have his little Lena.

That was 25 years ago. Glenn’s been gone for 13 of those Christmases. I now think in terms of things I’ve had longer than I knew Glenn. Lena is one of them. As was my beloved Kirby and my current vehicle, a 1998 Subaru Forester I bought new.

Lena is looking a bit worse for the wear. Her crown of candles is missing all of the candles. She’s left with a headband similar to ones seen on the likes of Paris Hilton at the latest Sundance Festival.  The red dress with its smart little bow-tie still look crisp, although now punctuated with dog spittle. Her apron is permanently skewed to starboard and her once-smooth blonde coif now looks like she’s walked onto a steaming street after a late August afternoon Miami rain burst.

I climbed back up on the step-stool to force her back into her place of honor on top of the tree, but she popped off again. I briefly considered tying her to the top branch, but I feared what message that might bring to my nieces and nephew when they see Christmas Lena roped to a tree like Bondage Barbie.

So she  now sits atop my piano, where she will draw the dreaded attention of Andy, who will no doubt chew that frizzy hair and either vomit or poop it out later.

Perhaps this is the year she is retired to a lesser position at Christmas, sort of the Dowager Christmas Angel. Perhaps this is the year I’ll get a star like my grandmother’s tree topper, one that twinkles with the rest of the tree.

But more than likely, I’ll rig a method of putting Lena back on the tree. Because 25 years ago, Glenn and I decided for our first Christmas together, we would begin our own Christmas traditions, much like the beloved memories I had of sharing the holidays with my grandmother and other family members. Christmas traditions that would include the child I had just discovered we would have the following August.

Those Christmas traditions we started in 1984 ended when Glenn died May 2, 1995. But little by little, many of them have returned. The stockings are now more decorative rather than filled with goofy goodies, something Glenn insisted on doing himself. The pile of stockings with names  of beloved pets no longer with me grew a little last year with the death of Kirby at a still too-young age of 12. Glenn’s stocking, distinctive in that it was hand-sewn with his family’s pet name for him – Fraser – is still carefully hung by the fireplace each year.

As I look over a tree that is covered with ornaments purchased in the 14 years since Glenn’s death, I still see the “Our First Christmas 1984″ ornament, always hung at the top, and remember a time when we thought we had the rest of our lives to celebrate many Christmases together.

But Charlee has begun her “see-what-I’ve-got-in-my-mouth-” dance, tail banging dangerously close to carefully-placed ornaments. It’s time to rescue another de-ribboned gift and start engineering a way to put Christmas Lena back on the tree, at least for another year.