Well, finally, the village is assembled! Is my shopping done? No. How about baking/cooking? Ah, no. Do I have any idea what I’m wearing to the holiday parties this weekend? Definitely not. But the village–the porcelain, hand-painted, Victorian-era, more-expensive-every-year, oversized project is up, so Christmas is officially here. Wendy’s Christmas Village I’m not one of those people who are constantly evaluating and redoing my house. I know those who strive to have every stick of furniture and accessory in place, whose homes are showplaces of decorating magnificence. They’re proud–and have every right to be–of their talents in coordination, cutting-edge style and color. Me? I move in, scatter stuff around and nod. That’ll work for a good decade. So Christmas is the only time I putter and angst over coordinating colors, greenery, ornaments, lights, hiding electrical cords and, ah yes, that crazy, precious village. Like all loyal children, I blame my mother. She started my collection when my husband and I were first married over seventeen years ago. When my kids were little, I let them hang whatever ornaments they wanted on the tree any which way. They shook packages with glee. But touch Mama’s village? That was a line nobody…