I Hate My Christmas Tree…

I want to punch my Christmas tree in the face. I’ve already yelled at it. I called it a fuckface. And then I accused it of doing this to me on purpose. I have a bit of a problem with inanimate objects that refuse to do my bidding. But this tree; this tree is a dickhead. He’s looking at me right now. Over there in the corner. Asshole. I’m giving him the silent treatment. I don’t think it’s working.

Last year, being my first widow Christmas, someone put up the tree. I don’t remember who. In the days of wedded bliss, it was The Norwegian’s job. I joyfully flitted about the room wondering how best to festoon the giant fake forest dweller–should it be leopard print velvet ribbons, glass ornaments or a mix? What do you think baby? More often than not, he said he didn’t give a crap. And now I know why.

It was in our original marital contract that I would not deal with inanimate things as I believe they come to life to screw with me as they know I have no patience and if they behave badly enough they will not have to perform their duties. Not this time phony. You’re not even a real tree. Ha. The Norwegian had great patience with such things as long as he was left alone with them. His mounting frustration included things like, “Would you like to do this yourself?” and “Why don’t you go take a bath and I’ll call you when I’m finished?” That was my favorite.

Instead of a bath, I am sitting at my kitchen counter with my back to Asshat Tree attempting to hurt his feelings. And I’m having a dirty martini, three olives, pimento stuffed. He left me no choice. And it is almost five. At this point, if I didn’t take a break, that damn tree might call the authorities. He’s close to the phone and I know he’s got them on speed dial. When they come to the door, I’m going to tell them what he did. When they hear my story, they will reprimand Asshat Tree and serve him with a Cease and Desist.

On Sunday, I decorated the rest of the house. I even put up one tree–a smaller tree I’ve been carrying around since The Norwegian first hit it big. I saw a photo in a magazine of a tree covered in various flowers and girly trims. I cut it out when we were newly married, looking at it longingly year after year. Then one year there was more money than not so I bought a tree and covered it with roses, tassels and all things feminine. I added to her every year. After a while, she became a marvel. I know my friends are jealous of her beauty. I love her so deeply that a few years ago I stopped removing her ornaments and purchased a special cover and had The Norwegian carry her in her perfect state to her home in the garage ten months of the year. On Sunday she entered the new rental house, nestling herself perfectly in a niche in the living room. She joined baubles and garlands and pine branches and golden things. I told her of her beauty. She breathed a deep sigh, puffed out her chest and glittered for all to see. When you visit you can spy her from the front door.

Fastening ribbons to candle holders, building Christmas villages, arranging nutcrackers and Christmas china filled the past two days. The only thing remaining is the main tree. The one for Santa. The one that boasts every ornament made by the chickens mixed with a tasteful collection of glass, shiny baubles lit from within with clear lights giving it a warm glow second to none. That’s how he was supposed to behave. Dick.

I went to the garage to retrieve said specimen. I can’t lift the bag. I can’t even drag it. No matter. I know, from my former perch watching its’ assemblage, that it is divided in three pieces. I pull the pieces apart with the intent of bringing them in one at a time. Tree Dick is prelit which means all the lights are attached to each other so while I can pull apart all three sections, they will not completely separate. No matter. I’m nothing if not cheery and resourceful. I will kind of drag them in a mish-mash of one in front of the other with the little top part riding the other two. However, three years ago, I added so much fucking crap to the top that I can’t drag it without losing feathers, twigs, giant ribbons, golden sticks and icicles. Again, copied from a magazine. Aren’t I clever?

I lift and drag, lift and drag, the tree from the garage through the laundry room and hall taking both the garage rug, the laundry room rug, the hallway rug and the kitchen rug along with me. No matter, still. They are actually giving me some slidey drag. I am, however, beginning to glow. I’m feeling flush and becoming irritated. I also grunt a few times; a sound foreign to those of us with manners. The tree is finally in its designated spot and I hoist the bottom section into the stand. I’m going to spread all the lovely branches before I add the middle section. Feeling proud of myself, I arrange branches and find the plugs for the prelit feature. I plug in the master and the only piece of the tree that lights up is the top. The two middle sections are duds. As I already spread all the branches into lovely clusters perfect for ornamentation, I reach in and out plugging and re-plugging, rearranging here and there, scratching the hell out of my hands. And here is where I go beyond glowing and begin to sweat. I do not sweat. Ever. It is unacceptable.

Irritation building. Re-plugging, unplugging and reconnecting continues. Nothing. I turn and a branch pokes my eye. Another branch will not go into its slot. No matter again. It’s just a little adjustment–move it here and lower it into the slot–snap goes my nail. You, tree, are now my sworn enemy. Move a little to the left and feel the fall before I can save myself. Trip over the middle and top tree sections and hurl myself under the hutch decorated with holiday china, nativity and smiling Santa. Crack my head on the bottom holding onto a wire and pull it from the tree sending me hurling to the ground, bouncing first off the sliding glass door. The tree laughed. Asshole.

That’s when I called him a fuckface. His laughter tells me he is in fact doing this on purpose. My best course of action is to go to Ace Hardware for new lights. This is not a problem. The break will do me good. Did you know Ace Hardware does not have a liquor aisle? Hit the Safeway next door and filled my hand basket with Grey Goose and olives. Came home and mixed the perfect dirty martini. And here I sit. Martini almost finished. Still pissed off at the half tree in the corner. Martini fog is settling in as I haven’t had anything to eat today.

As all kick ass girls know, there’s nothing a girl with a buzz can’t do. Tree–I’m coming for you. Put up your dukes asshat.


5 thoughts on “I Hate My Christmas Tree…”

  1. I enjoy your writing! You are so creative, and I love your wit! You can say it like no one else! I must say I laughed out loud as I read about your tree! I too can relate with some of your experiences as I am a single woman also.


  2. I am quite sure you are the only person to have a stare down and smack down with your Christmas tree. Were you wearing pumps and pearls?


  3. I love how you write. I laughed out loud at this and empathize with your feelings about inanimate objects not coooperating. Thanks for making my day.


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