Ok- not really but she would have been complicit. . .
Ok, those of you who know me in real life know that I have to do the ACTUAL Christmas this year. . .not like the poser Christmas I wrote about
here, but the actual this is the only one you are getting so let’s make it amazing Jew Mom event. Ok- so in order to get a handle on this event, I have been asking some of you about your traditions and your likes and what IS the one thing you ACTUALLY have to have or always wished you had to make a “real” Christmas. (Ok, my Sociologists- yes I know in the purest sense I could accept the fact that it is again a social construct and that even lighting the Menorah could be acceptable, but in the spirit of the season, I decided to suspend my sociological assumptions and went totally native) The consensus was that many either had a real tree in their traditions or wanted one or said pine was the smell of the season. . .I could add a few other smells to this idea of smelling like Christmas, but again in the SPIRIT of the season. . .I decided to venture forth and CUT DOWN MY OWN TREE. . .oh yes, I said it I went there. . .me, who gets paper cuts that could cause me to bleed out, yes I was going to grab a saw and have at it. . .found the tree farm a mere 15 miles down the road. . .oh happy day. . .oh that road is an INTERSTATE but hey a road is a road, right? Of course right. . .
So away we went, with my trust pack of bungee cords, since my initial attempt to get a real tree ended abruptly when I was told that real trees do not fold nicely to fit in your Elantra. For whatever reason, I never thought about the LOGISTICS of getting the tree home. . .thought the hard part was finding the PERFECT TREE. . .I was wrong.
It had snowed a bit, and it was just pretty enough to look a lot like Christmas. . .oh and it was cold. Children who had run to the car to get to the tree farm had experienced an intense 180 degree shift/turn. . .it happened when we got out of the car in the middle of a field and the wind made its presence known. . .my hardy junior lumberjack and jill were not interested in getting into the wagon to ride to the place where we would cut the tree down. . .the smell of hot apple cider made them gravitate toward the heated barn, and so came the first issue of the day, to chop, or not to chop? Truth be told, I was not looking forward to handling a saw. . .dead serious about the paper cut bleed out thing. . .so when I saw a stack of pre cut trees waiting to be examined, the issue seemed deliciously solved. Got the Juniors set, while Precious and I went to look at the trees. . .and well, it was pretty easy, we found one right away, and while I had actually measured the room in which I was setting up the tree, I had left the numbers at home and decided to eyeball it. . .and well, did I mention that I am short, so everything looks tall to me, and it tends to lead to several disasters? I didn’t? Well, here is one on the way.
The kids are sipping the their cider, while I purchase said tree and with some help from the Happy Tree Boy, I get it attached to my car roof and then, go get the kids. On the way out of the barn, Cocoa gets her fingers slammed in the door, and well, this was the best part of the trip home- because once they see the tree attached to the car, neither one of them want to get in it. Both Butter and Cocoa will only get in the car if I tell them in my best I’m-your-mom-and-I-will-get-you-home voice to get in and we will have an adventure. . .or a disaster or both.
I am 2 seconds away from the tree farm when Butter wails from the back that the tree is moving. . .in a tone of voice that implies he feels the tree, like a Zombie, in on its way in to eat his brain. Sitting in the front seat next to me, my usually sunshiny except when her fingers are squished daughter is looking up at the tree which extends a few fee in front of us and adds her cries of alarm, convinced the tree will strike quickly and without mercy, drawn by the scent of her bloody fingers. In an alarming turn of events I am now the Optimistic one in the car. . .Gottenyu!
I am 5 seconds away from the tree farm when I pull over to check the tree. It is fine. I drive a few more feet and the wailing begins again. . .Butter is near tears and BEGGS me to check. . .which I do. 15 miles from home might turn into a 7 hour dive home, I could have carried it home faster. Of course, this is on a nice country road, tractors are lapping us as I make my way to the interstate. . .and all HELL breaks loose in my car.
Jack and Jill, the cider buzz now gone, are about to pass out as the car reaches a whopping 37 MPH. . .with about 40 more miles to increase (yes I speed) but in deference to their panic stricken faces, I resolve to keep it under 70MPH. . .yes you are welcome, children, Happy Christmas (they say that in Great Britain)
Butter is hyperventilating in the back as he begs me to check the tree. Having done so many times, I agree, and pull to the side. This time, I notice the tree HAS shifted, and I take off my gloves and adjust it. Here is where Martha is liable, in looking at her advice, she said the needles should be strong and not break off easily. . .unless they are embedded in your flesh. In other words, you have a great choice if the needles on your tree draw blood, I was successful.
Here is the OTHER thing Martha forgot to tell me. . .SAP is sticky, and when you get it on your hands you should probably not try to drive a stick shift car after putting your hand in a big puddle of it. Yes, driving down I43, with my shifting hand STUCK TO THE STEERING WHEEL BY SAP AND MY FINGERS STUCK TOGETHER. . .BLOODY HELL. . .and there is my daughter in the front seat, watching me try to do just that and asking helpfully if I should try to use my other hand to shift. . .ummmm hey is that a deer over there?
We finally get it home, yes, and I finally rip my hand off the wheel, and feel a sense of excitement. I got a tree, no need to cut anything and while the drive home was messed up- we could now enjoy the bounty of the hunt. . .all 14 feet of it in my 9 foot dining room.
What fresh hell is this? I spoke too soon- I now have to cut the tree trunk. . .and I have only a hatchet, no saw. As I stand on my front porch chopping and swearing I notice that the school across the street is having their Christmas craft show, and that spilling across my front lawn and sidewalk, I am giving small children profanity lessons their parents are actually taking notes, I apparently made up a few, supercalifagilisticfuckingchristmastree is mine forever. I mute my potty mouth and continue to chop- when Muffin finds a saw and I finish the job, eager to get this set up aaaaaaaand. . .still. . .too. . .tall. . .
DAMMIT. . .but wait, ok- the top of the tree looks “crooked” and needs “trimming” done and done. . .ta DA it fits!
And that is how Martha Stewart almost killed my family.
