Christmas tree

“I have a real conundrum”, was how he answered my standard nightly inquiry which goes something like this:

Me: “How was your day?”
Husband: “It was (fill in the blank).”

Usually, he says “good.” Other times I can tell by his face that I shouldn’t ask. More often than not there’s a story or a funny anecdote that starts a conversation that carries us through dinner.

But never, in the almost seventeen years I’ve asked the question has it been answered this way.

“Wow, really? A conundrum. What happened?”
He hedged.
I don’t like hedging. Hedging makes me anxious.

“I’ll feed the dog,” he volunteered.

When it comes to eating our dog is probably a lot like yours. Since she comprehends any sentence that has the word food or feed or treat in it — the “spinning around the kitchen” phase of the evening begins as she excitedly waits for her dish to be prepared.

“Come on! Tell me what’s up!” I urged as he shoveled kibble into warm water.
When he bent down to give our whirling dervish her dinner, I spotted some residual unsteadiness left over from the bout of vertigo he’s been battling for the past couple of weeks.
Slowly, he came back to standing, leaning on the kitchen counter directly across from me.

Those corners in the kitchen, those are sacred. Over the years they have become our preferred conversation spots.

If I think about it, almost every conversation, big or small, has a least started in those corners.
We may shift back and forth while we prepare dinner but it all begins in those corners.
If things get tense, we maintain our distance, like fighters in the ring.
But I have laughed my ass off and been flooded with tears (often at the same time) in the corners of our kitchen.

We hug a lot there too.I don’t know why, but kitchen corners are conducive to hugging.

Anyway, it took a while for him to explain.

“I wanted to get you a tree,” he said looking at me sheepishly.
“I wanted to surprise you…with a Christmas tree.”

“What?”

You see, since we met, Christmastime at our house can be…complicated.

For me, it is the BEST time of year. You can find me Ho, Ho, Ho-ing my way through December.

For my husband—not so much. No, No, No-ing is more like it for him.

It could be due to his horrible, Jesuit boarding school, Oliver Twisted childhood—no one knows for sure.

All I DO know is that Christmas can be a minefield, a subject we have litigated into the ground only to come away without any reasonable solution as to how we can navigate without blowing somebody up.
If you read my last blog post you know that I’ve decided to go treeless this year. It was a compromise I’ve never been willing to make—until no——made easy by some brilliantly timed post-holiday travel.

In an act of holiday self-care (which,I highly recommend for everyone) I decorated my sister’s tree on Tuesday which was a fix for this Christmas Junkie.

So, I’m good with it. Really.

And that’s the part that confused him.

He continued, “On Monday, I finally felt up to driving to that awesome nursery where we saw those live trees,” he said.
“The ones with the silver needles you like?

He could see the bewildered expression on my face but he kept going.

“So I had it in the back of my van and I was going to set it up this morning…until I read your blog.”

I still wasn’t following so he continued.

“You said you were happy that you didn’t have a tree. That you liked the ease and simplicity…”

“Well, yeah…but…”

“So I drove back there to return it, but they don’t take back Christmas trees.” I could see a look of chagrin trying to hide behind his sexy, white beard.

I started to laugh. “What? No you didn’t!”

“Yep,” he said, starting to see the humor. “You are the proud owner of a living, silver pine tree which has been driven all over hell and back the past two days and is now lurking in the back of my van trying not to feel rejected.”

“Awwwwww, come on! You did not!” My eyes filled with tears as I launched myself into his arms. I told you those corners were for hugging.

“Lemme see him!” I squealed.

“I’m sorry.” He nuzzled his face in my neck. “I just can’t seem to get it right.”

“Don’t be sorry. Ya did good.”

Sometimes when you let something go. Like really let it go with no residual bullshit–it hunts you down and lurks in a van in your driveway.

Bible.

Carry on,
xox

Dear Janet,
This is a letter from the most neglected thing in your home at the holidays (besides your legs, which go unshaved in December as a timesaving measure)—the back of your Christmas tree.

I mean, I know I face the street, and people really can’t see anything beyond the white lights as they walk by, but this year I feel pressed to complain about the meager amount and shall I say questionable (I’m being delicate) choice of ornaments you’ve chosen to hang (a better word might be, hide) back here.

But enough with decorum.

She can’t be serious, I thought to myself, when you hung that dumbass plastic snowman who’s supposed to also be a construction worker (clever. Not really) in what I consider a prime spot of pine tree real estate. But hey, I get it. I’m the BACK of the tree. What did I expect, the sparkly gold-flecked Buddha? The peacock with real feathers, or the man in the spaceship? Noooooo. Those are your favorites so they get to hang in the FRONT!

This is an almost seven-foot tree and you’ve hung a total of five ornaments back here. FIVE!

To say it looks sparse would be like saying water is wet.

If a mullet says business in the front, party in the back, then this tree is an example of a mullet in reverse. We can hear the party happening in the front while back here it’s crickets. And I’ll tell ya why.

The ornaments you’ve relegated to this “no man’s land,” this great forgotten evergreen expanse, are either ones you’ve been gifted and don’t give a rat’s ass about—or they’re broken. Take for example the beloved ice skater from your childhood who had the misfortune of losing a leg in the Great Tragic Vacuum Cleaner Incident of 2011 (perpetrated by your blind housekeeper Maria—whose coke bottle glasses should read: Objects are closer than they appear).

Anyway, she—the skater, not Maria—let us all know in the first five seconds that she used to reign over one of the coveted front and center spots on the tree, but now things have changed. My how the mighty have fallen (literally) and so we all (the other four misfits and myself) we have to listen to her go on and on about her freaking triple Axel, the morally bankrupt Russian judges who couldn’t recognize real talent if it skated up their skirts—and how unfair her life has become!

Oh, I’m sorry. Has your privileged life as an imaginary elite athlete in a wildly expensive sport taken a turn, sweetie? Tell your troubles to Jesus! I’m dying! I was cut down in my prime so you could hang here and complain all the live-long day!

Listen, Janet, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, judgey, and bitter—but I am, so deal with it. It’s Christmastime. Shit gets real. And the backside of trees, we have feelings too.

That’s all. I guess I just needed to vent. Hey, is that Celine Dion singing Silent Night? I LOVE that song! I have to say, I’m feeling so much better!

Merry Christmas everybody!

Carry on,
Xox

Dear Janet,
This is a letter from the most neglected thing in your home at the holidays (besides your legs, which go unshaved in December as a timesaving measure)—the back of your Christmas tree.

I mean, I know I face the street, and people really can’t see anything beyond the white lights as they walk by, but this year I feel pressed to complain about the meager amount and shall I say questionable (I’m being delicate) choice of ornaments you’ve chosen to hang (a better word might be, hide) back here.

But enough with decorum.

She can’t be serious, I thought to myself, when you hung that dumbass plastic snowman who’s supposed to also be a construction worker (clever. Not really) in what I consider a prime spot of pine tree real estate. But hey, I get it. I’m the BACK of the tree. What did I expect, the sparkly gold-flecked Buddha? The peacock with real feathers, or the man in the spaceship? Noooooo. Those are your favorites so they get to hang in the FRONT!

This is an almost seven-foot tree and you’ve hung a total of five ornaments back here. FIVE!

To say it looks sparse would be like saying water is wet.

If a mullet says business in the front, party in the back, then this tree is an example of a mullet in reverse. We can hear the party happening in the front while back here it’s crickets. And I’ll tell ya why.

The ornaments you’ve relegated to this “no man’s land,” this great forgotten evergreen expanse, are either ones you’ve been gifted and don’t give a rat’s ass about—or they’re broken. Take for example the beloved ice skater from your childhood who had the misfortune of losing a leg in the Great Tragic Vacuum Cleaner Incident of 2011 (perpetrated by your blind housekeeper Maria—word gets around—whose coke bottle glasses should read: Objects are closer than they appear).

Anyway, she—the skater, not Maria—let us all know in the first five seconds that she used to reign over one of the coveted front and center spots on the tree, but now things have changed. My how the mighty have fallen (literally) and so we all (the other four misfits and myself) we have to listen to her go on and on about her freaking triple Axels, the morally bankrupt Russian judges who couldn’t recognize real talent if it skated up their skirts—and how unfair her life has become!

Oh, I’m sorry. Has your privileged life as an imaginary elite athlete in a wildly expensive sport taken a turn, sweetie? Tell your troubles to Jesus! I’m dying! I was cut down in my prime so you could hang here and complain all the live-long day!

Listen Janet, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, judgey, and bitter—but I am, so, deal with it. It’s Christmastime. Shit gets real. And the backside of trees, we have feelings too.

That’s all. I guess I just needed to vent. Hey, is that Celine Dion singing Silent night? I LOVE that song! I have to say, I’m feeling so much better!

Merry Christmas everybody!

Carry on,
Xox