This is me trimming the tree……
and yes, my waist really is that small. In my dreams.
We ditched our fake tree and have been buying real trees these last few years. The Big Daddy Lumberjack likes to cut the trunk so it’s nice and straight in the stand. I cut a few branches to decorate with, and it’s like a Norman Rockwell painting around here on Decor Day.
By day’s end, when the house is a wonderland of Christmas, The BD and I sit on the couch with a glass of wine looking at our pretty, pretty tree. Without fail, a strand of lights will stop working. That’s when we will try to jury rig it, check the bulbs, shake the tree, uplug and replug the strands, and check the outlet. What we almost always do as well, out of sheer frustration, is give it the finger. Which really doesn’t do anything, but crack us up because we have the maturity level of ten year olds. This year I checked every strand of lights, plugged them into one another to double check, plugged them into the outlet, unplugged them, put them on the tree, decorated the tree and plugged the lights in. Half the tree was not lit and I let out a string of curse words that was as long as those crappy, made in China lights.
In this season of peace, love, and joy, that hunka evergreen irritates me every time I look at it. I don’t have the time to figure out what the problem is and turned it so the front and back are lit. The sides are scared of the dark and crying at night for some lights, but I DO NOT CARE.
No, I do not, for it is ELEVEN days until Christmas, and on day TWELVE, I can pitch that tree, lights and all, right out the front door.