Last Sunday, after taking our cheesy holiday pictures at the mall (they are actually so adorable that I wish that I had a scanner to show you), in spite of my exhausted and openly weeping 6 year old son requiring a nap STAT, I was determined to procure an actual Christmas tree. We’ve never been able to have one before (due to various reasons), and it was on my Allmighty Schedule, and by God, we were going to do it. Dave snickered into his puffy gloves as I crazily launched into my diatribe after he suggested that we might want to do this another weekend, you know, when we were all better rested.
“I think you’re all fucked in the head. We’re ten minutes from the fucking Christmas Tree Lot, and you wanna bail out! Well, I’ll tell you something, this is no longer an option . . . it’s a quest! It’s a quest for fun! I’m gonna have fun, and you’re gonna have fun! We’re all gonna have so much fucking fun we’ll need plastic surgery to remove our Goddamn smiles! You’ll be whistling Zip-a-dee-doo-da out of your assholes! I’ve got to be crazy! I’m on a pilgrimage to see a tree! Praise Santa Claus!”
Dave has mentioned before that when I get a bee in my bonnet about something or another, he can always tell, not because my voice is shakingly raised or I begin openly weeping, but because crazy things begin to pour out of my mouth with alarming frequency.
This, of course, was one of those times.
Even the baby felt chastised and stopped chirping merrily until we dutifully pulled the car into the lot and embarked on our journey to get a Motherfucking Christmas tree, smiles stretched fakely across our cheeks. Since I cared only about getting a Christmas tree, any Christmas Tree would suffice, so I allowed Ben and Dave to pick it out, while Alex and I went inside to talk to the parrot that lives on this farm.
(Nothing cheers me up like having a conversation with this parrot, who is in love with me. Now, the conversation revolves around saying hello to each other in various tones, coupled with some laughter, and rounded out with his completely accurate immitation of my cell phone ringer. Then he’ll fan his tail at me, and we’ll start over at the beginning with our hellos. It’s like having an extremely colorful baby.)
(as all of my animals have been rescued from extremely sad and/or bizare situations, I am anxiously awaiting the day that I am given a parrot or another exotic bird to adopt. They are so amazingly awesome, and I am completely dying for one, but I cannot in good conscience go and buy one.
Not only because they are really expensive, but because my own bleeding heart tells me that I should not do this, as these animals were meant to live in their natural habitat. Which I am pretty certain is not a suburban street outside of Chicago, Illinois. Call me nuts, but even on the best days here, the avian life that I come across is more like a cardnial and a couple of finches, not a scarlet macaw or parrot.
So I wait for my exotic bird, just like I waited for my comically large bunny and my geriatric gecko.)
I’m pretty sure they were both more than happy to be allowed to escape the supreme pleasure of my company for awhile (Lord knows why), while the baby was stuck with me for the long haul (to be fair, I am the one who is stuck with HIM all night, every night). I have a feeling I was pretty frightening, because they both began addressing me in their most respectful, sweetest voices, suggesting I relax and maybe eat some McDonalds (yes, they are well versed in knowing the way to my heart well).
When we got the tree home, we realized that the mini tree lights we had gotten had (gasp!) white cords, which looked much stupider on the tree than you’d imagine. So, my mission (less stupid than Mission: ManBand, however) for the week was to pick up some lights with green cords. I bought about twice what I needed so as to avoid future mini Christmas light-less moments (because those happen all of the time, right? Right?), and because I have inherited my father’s OCD need to have backup’s and replacements FOR EVERYTHING.
Yesterday evening, the lights were finally placed on the tree, and today we decorated it. It was afterwards, when I went down to the basement to grab the rest of the Christmas decorations, when I realized that we had several boxes of mini lights down there. And wait! In that bin, there are even MORE lights. And THERE, in the corner, EVEN MORE lights!
It appears that my OCD habits of purchasing mini Christmas lights has spanned the four Christmases that I have celebrated with my own family (completely in spite of the lack of Real Live Christmas Trees, which is even more hilarious, when you think about it. At least to me. Who has had very little sleep these past days. So really strange things are uninentionally hilarious). My friends, I could easily open up one of those fly-by-night Christmas shops that you see in the strip malls with all of the unopened boxes of mini lights that I now own.
With the 27 or 28 boxes of unopened lights that we now own, it all but assures me that I will not have to purchase mini lights for the next 45 years or so, at least until the technology evolves such that my husband will be completely unable to resist the pull (But BECKY, it has a REMOTE and INTERNET CONNECTIONS! WE NEEEEEED THESE LIGHTS, BABY!).
But now I am trying to figure out what on Earth to DO with these lights. I mean, I’m past the days where I feel like mini lights really accentuate a rooms decor for 365 days a year, what with me no longer being a college kid. And it’s currently too snowy for me to string them up outside, lest I get an electrical shock or blow a fuse or something.
I guess I could try to rest easy, knowing that all of my mini light needs will be completely fufilled for the next several decades. Or I suppose that I could donate some to a frat house where I am certain they will be put to good use. The baby loves cords and lights, but I’m thinking with the new lead paint warnings displayed prominently on the label that maybe allowing him to play with those is probably not an option.
Thank you everyone who has kept my family in their thoughts during this time. It means more to me than my ickle black soul can possibly express. My father will be going in for surgery again on Monday morning, and assuming that all goes well, should be home by Wednsday or Thursday (or whenever his insurance company boots him out).
It will be then when I feel like I can breathe again.