Having sex with a hostile, sticky porcupine (also known as a live Christmas tree) is número six on my “Things That Make the Season JOYFUL” list.
NOT! I hate live Christmas trees. They are sap-regurgitating pines that contain eleventy gazillion pine needles that end up in my underwear—and other dark recesses.
For the record, it’s not just the sap and needles that make my hair stand straight up like Marge Simpson’s; it’s a combination of that and the ceremonial wrapping and unwrapping of the Screw-You Lights, which are inevitably tangled, dead, or both, EVERY—SINGLE —TIME.
I absolutely despise dancing the tango with lights. The end of that chapter almost always involves scissors, alcohol, and singing the annual holiday overture called Screw This and Screw That.
I especially hate said sap-bleeding monstrosities if one is acquired when it’s 10 degrees outside and the snow is blowing.
Jack Frost definitely blows.
Heck NO, I won’t cut a tree down like a pioneer woman. Leaving my warm castle and driving to the farm stand in frigid conditions is already extra credit in my Mom-Call-of-Duty book.
This Christmas it went something like this: “That one looks good.” A new Christmas-tree-picking-out record of less than five minutes was made; and my eeny-meeny-miney-mo blind selection wasn’t half bad. I won at Christmas tree roulette.
Technically, she’s not fully decorated yet, but that’s all I’m going to do for tonight. If my minion-elf family would like the remaining dozen or so bulbs and tinsel hung up around the house, they can do it themselves.
My family still uses tinsel. No kidding. What a shiny disaster it has become. The only real perk is glittery cat turds.
Yes, even our pets help decorate: We end up with a yard and a litter box that are beauteous.
Live trees for Christmas are lovely and they smell amazing, but after 20-something years of pine needle enemas, I’ve finally had enough. Who needs the extra work and aggravation during this joyful season of stress, exhaustion, and pulling the last hair out of my head?
“Why not use a fake pine?” you ask.
A couple of years ago, and against my family’s wishes, I bought an artificial tree. I figured it would grow on them. I presented my fake tree as now-we’re-one-of-those-hip-families-with-two-trees kinda thing, hoping sooner or later they’d accept it and I’d be free from tree muckery forever.
Technically, I lost by a vote of five to one in favor of a real, muthermucking mess of a tree.
So, for the next few months, I will be dissecting pine needles out of my unmentionables and chanting The Muck It overture.
Next year, count me out. No more Christmas trees, dead or alive (or fake).
“Why I Hate Christmas Trees” is an excerpt from the new anthology Mom for the Holidays: Stories of Love, Laughter, and Tantrums at Christmas and Hanukkah. Visit them at momfortheholidays.com! You couldn’t ask for a better gift to a fellow mom! (Want the UNCENSORED VERSION? It’s available on Kindle here!)
Gina Fenton of Extreme Mom: There’s the painfully boring PERFECT mom, and then there’s . . . Extreme Mom. Gina’s blog is the uncut and uncensored thoughts bouncing around in her head, except on speakerphone. Matriarch extraordinaire of four teens including an extra credit bundle called ADHD, OCD, Aspergers, Bipolar, and every other quirk not yet recognized in the DSM Proud member of the Parental Special Forces. That’s like a Green Beret, but with more practical skills. She’d like to advise a rating of M for mature, but mature is not exactly a word she’d use to describe herself. She is more like a fun grown-up. (extrememom.net)