Take THAT Christmas tree. I win this year, yo. (A re-post.)

This post was originally published on my previous blog on November 29, 2012.  This year my girls and I rock, paper scissored for the Christmas tree.  Would we get one this year or not?  If they won, we had to get one. If I lost, I had to get a strait-jacket. For those new to this crazy of mine, I thought I’d explain why the Christmas tree is not my BFF. 

I’m not sure when the loathing of the Christmas tree began.

My earliest memories are watching my single mother try to saw the trunk (probably with a butter knife) and upright the tree in a stand, only to watch her hours of effort come tumbling down.

Getting the Christmas tree wasn’t something we necessarily looked forward to, it was just something we did because that’s just something you do. You know?

However, that’s not the only reason I’m the world’s biggest non-fan of the Christmas tree. Let me try to explain. (And after I explain you’ll think I need to head to the nearest Strait-jackets R Us.) Me telling you that the Christmas tree makes me feel claustrophobic does not make me sound normal.

Yet that’s exactly how that freaking tree makes me feel every.single.year.

Claustrophobic.

The tree enters the house all while dropping needles along the way.

It’s much larger than anticipated and (feels as though) it takes up the entire 15×17 living room.

And it drops needles.

The cats are excited I brought in something for them to climb where it’s warm.

Did I mention it drops needles?

And the dog is excited that for a month he doesn’t have to drink from the toilet, so I’m required to water the tree 37 freaking times per day.

Also. Needles.

*shudder*

It makes me crazy.
(fine. crazier.)

This year I did the unthinkable and asked the husband for an artificial tree. A fake tree. Saying “artificial” is only to make those who buy those feel better. But that’s what it boils down to. Fakery. I hate fake trees but they’re so pretty. And you can find skinny ones that don’t take up 15×17 living rooms! And pre-lit too so you don’t end up tangled in your tree while lighting it.

Not that that happens to me every year or anything.
(it so happens to me every year, I walk around the tree with the lights, get dizzy and end up becoming one with the tree.)

I was thinking the fake tree was my solution.

Until I saw that I’d have to take out a second mortgage to purchase one.

Today I decided to get my craft on. This isn’t common as I am not a crafty person. On Pinterest I even have a board called “Crafty Crap” because that is usually what something looks like after I have tried my hand at it.

But I decided I would not be daunted.

I would build myself a Christmas tree and one that would not send me running to the nearest padded room.

So I put on my sports bra (because that’s when you know shiz ’bout to get serious) my jeans, scarf, hat and hoodie. Oh, and a shirt. I braved the area that is the husband’s man cave and I found the handsaw.

The birch tree is near our iron fence, so I climbed three rungs, slipping only once, and wedged myself in the tree. I started sawing away, I’m one branch down and can hear a car slowing. I look out and realize two cars have slowed down to watch me. I am usually the people watcher but today I was the people watched. No matter, carry on. Two more branches that begged to come inside where it was warm.

I brought them in, washed them off, spruced (birched?) them up a bit (get it? spruced. birched. laugh! I’m funny!) and stuck them in a bucket that I picked up a few months ago alongside the road. I put the bucket in the corner (Nobody puts Baby in a corner) and strung white lights all over ‘er. Only one Batman Band-Aid was used.

I’ll wrap the bucket in burlap later, but here’s the bad girl in all her glory:


So I found my own cure for the loathing of the Christmas tree.

No pills, therapy, or sacrificing of small animals required.

It’s a Christmas miracle.

For two years we used the bucket o’ birch tree branches for our Christmas tree, but last year the girls begged for a real tree. I gave in. If that’s not proof of my love for them, I do not know what is. Now, I have to do it again this year.

Send booze.

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