Go check out Sarcastic Mom’s rack.

Go check out what happened to Miss Puerto Rico.

I’ll wait. I’m just gathering my thoughts about what to write here today. I think the story is evolving, but you need to give me a minute.

Ok? Cool.

Tonight, I get to re-image an old laptop. I’m going to wipe it completely clean, re-install the operating system and the appropriate drivers. Note that it may include cursing (not, in and of itself unusual, I know. shut.up.) and throwing things. I have done this once before. It was not pretty. It was not this same laptop. It was a desktop that got a virus from some shithead gamer that sent Shortman an email. About 3 years ago.

I’ve had this laptop sitting on the desk waiting to be re imaged almost that long. The horror of that exercise has prevented me from popping those XP setup cds into this nice IBM Thinkpad. It runs. It connects to the internet. But, you can’t install anything new on it, and it has really old, old versions of Adobe and Mediaplayer. We can’t upgrade it.

Why? you ask? (Well, you probably didn’t, but I’m going to tell you anyway.) Because it was a ‘hand me down or throw me out’ computer from work that was set up with no administrator rights. Therefore, I can’t administrate new software onto it. And now that I’ve got the house rigged for wireless, I want to have a computer in every room. Because, y’know, I’m sick that way. And a nerd.

So, with much whining and snarking and grimacing, I’m going to take on that little sucker this evening. Be glad you’re not in firing range.

Now, here’s where the story evolves. (And another view into the Hotfessional mind - watch the hairpin turns and trackbacks and mudslides, and eeeeeeeeek! there’s a cliff.) Picture those wavy-flashback-television-sitcom lines.

I have a mean streak when I can’t get something to do what I want. (Like, say, I want that computer to actually work after I get through with it. ) Generally only inanimate objects must fear my wrath; people are fairly safe.

Here’s an example (and oh Mah Gawd, it’s happened twice. Two different husbands, though, so [shhhh] Mr. Hot has only been subjected to it once):

I fight with Christmas trees.

Yep. This is why I no longer have a live tree for the holidays. They hate me. Yes, it’s personal. Don’t pretend it’s not.

The first time (with the Practice Husband), I was having a holiday luncheon for my boss (The Uppity Southern Bitch) and co-workers (3 other women - yes, we worked in H.R.) Practice and I had just finished putting a hardwood floor in the huge family room. It took us (yes, just the two of us) - 6 weeks of pulling up piss-scented carpeting, scrubbing concrete, laying vapor layers and cushioning layers and oak planks then sanding and staining and varnishing to get that floor down. (Amazingly enough, that was not the cause of the divorce!) It was a beautiful room, and I wanted a 9-foot tall live tree to be the centerpiece. I didn’t believe in artificial trees.

We found the tree, unpacked all of my beautiful ornaments - handed down from my Grandmother (who had died that summer) and MomandDad (who weren’t having trees anymore since we were all out of the house and Dad is a Muslim). I took hours and hours to make it just.right. - hanging crystal hearts and bells, tying bows, re-arranging bulbs and tinsel and lights. It was my dream tree. The tablecloth (hand-made by me) and the advent candle centerpiece on the table completed the look.

I slaved over the food - cucumber sandwiches, crab dip, fruit salad, little weiners on sticks, petit fours - all very Southern ladylike (in my mind anyway). I had Christmas carols playing softly in the background. I had never hosted a party without lots of vodka and beer before! This was a historic occasion. Champagne punch in beautiful fluted glasses was available for those who chose to imbibe.

One of my cohorts in crime (another transplanted Michiganian, even) came early to calm me down. We did a walk through to make sure TUSB couldn’t find fault with anything. I think maybe we also had a cigarette and a shot on the back porch to get us ready.

When TUSB and the other guests arrived at the appointed time (fashionably 7.5 minutes late, I’m sure), I helped them with their wraps and directed them to the family room where, I hoped, they would be awestruck by my decorating prowess and my spiritual festivity.

Instead, they were greeted by 9-fucking-feet of Norway Spruce tipping over and spilling hundreds of hand-blown crystal ornaments onto the kiln-dried and varnished to a high polish oak floor. What didn’t fall to the floor and splinter into millions of pieces fell onto the beautifully decorated table with all of my fancy-fucking-finger-foods. (Bonus use of fuck there due to the sheer horror the memories bring back.)

I calmly walked over to the tree. Picked it up by the trunk and dragged it across the floor to the sliding glass doors that opened onto the deck. Pulled that sucker outside and up-ended it over the railing to watch it go crashing from the second story family room (this was a split level house) into the snow below. I walked back into the kitchen and had another shot.

Then I picked the ornaments out of the crab dip and offered champagne punch to my guests.

The ornaments that survived the hardwood floor also survived the fall into the snow. After TUSB and the others left, Eva (my fellow shot-chugger) and I rescued what we could. I had Practice re-cut the bottom of the tree so that it would stand up and we got toasted while we redecorated.

—- I’ll save the second story of Hotfessional vs. The Tree for another time. Until then, here’s the view outside my window today. Snow. Sigh. This can only mean that I’ll have to live that moment again when I unpack the ornaments in a few days. —-

Trackback URI | Comments RSS