I love Christmas.
I hate winter, I hate snow and I hate the cold, but Christmas?! Ah, Christmas is the one little ray of happiness that keeps me going during these long, awful months. I love the music, the movies and the cookies. But most of all, I love Christmas trees and I have no one but my father to blame.
My father is serious about his Christmas trees. Every year he would bundle us up and drag us out find the perfect tree. We would travel to various nurseries and garden centers as my father dug deeper and deeper into the maze of Balsam, Fraser and Douglas Firs. He would pull out hundreds of trees, inspecting them from every angle to make sure they were full and healthy. This ritual kept the interest of my brother and myself for approximately .27 seconds. As my dad pulled out yet another tree, we would hide in between them and knock over wreaths until being even being mischievous was no longer entertaining.
Eventually we would scamper back to my father and complain that we were cold, tired and hungry. He would finally chose that year's perfect specimen, strap it to top the car and zip us home where we were immediately tasked with trying to fit the monstrosity the tree through the front door. Nevertheless, after careful maneuvering and a bit too much foul language, the tree always made its way inside. My mother would pop on the Christmas music and we would all gather together to string the lights and hang the ornaments.
Not much has changed, except for the fact that my brother and I are no longer home to witness the annual insanity. When I first moved in with Jason, many years ago, I was adamant that we purchase a real tree together. I was just a poor college student at the time and Jason had just started his first real, grown-up job, so funds were tight, but we still managed to come home with slightly less pathetic tree than Charlie Brown.
And so, our own tradition was born.
Every year we hunted down another Christmas tree. We cursed as we carried it up flights of stairs or shoved it in elevators or rearranged furniture to make it fit in our tight living quarters, but it was always there. My single, glowing ray of light topped with the tackiest star you could find.
My husband has never once encouraged my fanatical obsession with Christmas trees. (Especially not the star. He fucking hates that star.) In fact, in 2011, he fought strongly against having a tree as he didn't trust our psycho bitch cat to play nice with it. To be honest, I didn't either, but my love for a tree won out. (The cat, by the way, didn't give two shits about the tree and instead stealthily drank its water whenever we weren't looking. Since y'know, it's ridiculously bad for her and just straight-up disgusting.)
This year however, my husband won. Between bouts of sickness and an unnatural amount of December traveling we found ourselves without a Christmas tree this year. It's a bit depressing, but I am making up for it by decorating the shit out of our apartment. Stay tuned for my winter wonderland... And then some.
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