Okay, you asked for it. But, to get you in the mood, you have to go look here:

It’s mah posse!

(The site is getting a lot of hits today apparently, so if it doesn’t load the first time, try pasting this link http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=9617793428 into your browser later. And there’s sound, so if you’re at work or the baby’s asleep, turn down your speakers)

Hee! Aaaaaanyway….

When Mr. Hot, Shortman and I moved back to Michigan, we found a basement garden view apartment in Royal Oak. It was a cheap nice place for the three of us - it had no vermin! a fireplace! And a patio with sliding glass doors that led outside from the livingroom. Lots of wood trim and a great neighborhood was the icing on the cake. It was 1993 and our whole lives were in front of us.

Here’s the layout of the main living area. Bedrooms and potty down the hall. Marvel at my drawing skillz!
Shortman was only two, and we moved over Thanksgiving weekend. This would be the first time in our married life that we weren’t poor students. We wanted to start our own traditions and make memories for our sweet little one. We had great dreams. And what better time to start pursuing them than during the holidays?

I took Shortman to Frank’s Nursery and Crafts (which is now, sadly, defunct - at least in Michigan) to pick out a tree. He bounced around in his little snow suit - going from tree to tree to tree. “This one? Twee? Kissmas Twee?” I was trying not to throw up at the prices that were hanging on these sickly looking things.

We finally found one that was only bare in 2 spots fairly full and about 6 foot tall. It was reasonably priced (dinner for three at Pizza Hut). I asked the high school kid working the tree lot to help me load it into my car.

He shaved off the bottom of the trunk so that it could suck up water and last three days until Christmas. He put it through that netting machine and hauled it over to the Cutlass I was driving. We loaded it into the trunk (yes, it fit, do you know you can hide a body in the trunk of an ‘88 Cutlass Supreme?) and Shortman and I drove home. That little boy was sooooo excited about his “Kissmas Twee”.

Mr. Hot was doubtful. “You spent how much on this tree?” “The trunk is twisted.” “It’s not going to fit.” Damn Scrooge.

I was not deterred by his pessimism. Hottie-Blue-Skies, I always see the glass as being half full (especially if there’s vodka in it.) I offered him sex cookies if he would only put it in the tree stand. I would do all of the decorating after Shortman went to sleep.

Not one to pass up a blow job cookies, he put the stand on the tree and set it out on the patio so that the branches could settle. Meanwhile, Shortman and I hung the stockings on the fireplace and the wreath on the front door. I read him “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” as his bedtime story that night and got him settled in so sugar plums could dance in his dreams.

After that, I brought the tree inside and hung our ornaments. The crystal stars with minimal damage. The bells that only had small cracks in them. Mr. Hot stoked the fire (in the fireplace first….). We were snuggling; talking about how much fun it was to be done with school; to have new careers. We were giggling while we imagined Shortman’s reaction on Christmas morning. How excited he was going to be about his Thomas the Tank Engine (pre-lead-based-paint) track and lunch box for daycare. Dozing in each other’s arms.

Okay, now please scroll back up to the picture (marvel some more while you’re there, please). See the fireplace? See the green circle with the red box around it (that’s the tree). See the space in front of the fireplace where you can imagine Mr. Hot and I enjoying the pretty Duraflame fire? (Yes, I so could have made that a “log” reference, but I didn’t. Okay, maybe I just did. Snort.)

The next thing I knew, I had the fuckin’ tree on my head. That twisted trunk? It was a bit of a problem apparently.

Once again, I picked up the tree (after crawling out from under the damn thing) and quietly opened the sliding door. I put the tree outside. I did not throw it (contrary to what the other participant Mr. Hot may say). I closed the door and sat on the couch and cried. Nothing like shattering my dreams AND the rest of my effin’ ornaments.

Mr. Hot, being the superhero that he is, went into the kitchen junk drawer and found some wire. He brought the tree back in, propped it against the glass and tied the wire around the top. Then he nailed the wires into the ceiling to stabilize the tree. Nine years later, when we moved out (and eight years after we switched to an artificial tree that was only 4 1/2 feet tall) those nail holes were still in the ceiling and the tops of the walls.

But he managed to salvage my dreams and Shortman’s surprise the next morning. I mean, wouldn’t that have sucked? Shortman gets up and sees his Kwissmas Twee laying out on the patio? And never once did I hear “I told you the damn trunk wasn’t straight.”

—- So, there you have it. The second time I fought my Christmas tree and lost. I don’t even walk through evergreen forests around here. I stick to deciduous trees whenever possible. —-

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