Thursday night, I’d finally had enough wallowing and whining, so I told Crys that I was about to go all Eye of the Tiger on the Christmas tree I’d neatly transported from that life to this – with, I feel compelled to add – only a few minor bruises and a cut finger, which certainly isn’t nearly as horrifying as it could have been.

I’d already lugged everything in from the car, which made a grand mess in my wee apartment, adding, I like to think, a little rustic – yet slobbery – vibe to the place. I mean, who doesn’t go apeshit with The Awesome for stuff in cartons you don’t have anywhere to store? (answer, obviously, is “anyone.”)

Mimi was waltzing her big girl ass over here for our weekly girls night the following evening and I figured we’d spend the weekend decorating my apartment festively, as, most of you well know, I wear a #1 finger for Christmas – and no, not the YOU’RE number one finger. As I didn’t really want my daughter to watch me mangle a tree from – literally – the fifties into submission because there’s no amount of therapy THAT can undo, I was all proactive and shit. I nearly patted myself on the back, if only I could’ve reached that far.

The tree was a hand-me-down from the first year we were married, given to us by my sister-in-law’s parents, who apparently never get rid of anything, a trait I find remarkable in others, especially considering I cannot, for the life of me, find your standard, garden variety, scotch tape. None of this fancy “electrical tape” for this girl – nope. I may SPEAK fancy, but I’m all about the plain Jane tape.

(this means, Pranksters, that my presents will be wrapped with duct tape this year. Thems be the very colorful breaks)

(double sorry for anyone who gets a present from me. Should be a *ahem* challenge to unwrap)

Our first year together, Dave assembled the tree as I watched, my mild-mannered husband swore like, well, me, which lead me to understand one thing (okay, two):

1) Dave should NEVER be allowed to do tedious housework

B) Putting together fake Christmas trees requires a Masters in Awesome..

Since my parents were the sort who chopped down their own Christmas trees and made syrup from um… those trees that give you the stuff to make syrup (*I’d* been under the impression came from Mrs. Butterworth and her quaint, homey – and terribly refined – apron), I knew nothing at all about fake trees beyond “they come out of a box and smell like burnt hair.”

And once that first tree was up, it was a sight to behold. I’d petitioned for a real tree, but with carpeting and dogs and cats and kids, I was summarily denied, and for good reason. There are probably STILL needles in the most odd places left from the one year we did manage a real tree.

So I figured, if I’m going fake, I’M GOING MOTHERFUCKING FAKE. And I did. And it was awesome:

Whoops. Wrong photo. That was me. A very surly bag ‘o’ jelly beans. Very little has changed since first grade. I’m taller now, I think. 

WHOOPS! I’ve got to stop naming my snaps shit like, “Tate the asshole hedgehog,” because then I get all excited to see what it is and it’s NOT my fug ass tree.

See? The tree? I mean, okay, if you can’t see it, it’s on the left there (or is it the OTHER left?) and you know you’re a bad blogger when your snaps aren’t actually aimed at your intended target.

Also: SQUEE! When did Ben get so fucking OLD?

So the tree. We put it up twice, each time, Dave swearing like an asshole, causing me nearly to go into labor and then we moved onto a more…adult-looking fake tree. At least, the thing was green and not white. Which did NOT make me particularly happy, by the by.

When I moved out, I thought it only natural that I’d take the old white tree, because, well, I’m tacky and Dave’s an adult.

Which brought me to Thursday when I was all ramped up and ready to be festive, motherfucker. I could TOTALLY put together a tree and shit, even if it was rusted and appeared to be flaking lead paint. I was ALL ready to kick some ass.

Until I realized that things – even aluminum – do turn to dust eventually and I was missing the top half of the tree. So okay, it was really that I was missing the top half of the tree, so stop humming “Dust in the Wind,” will you? PLEASE? That song gives me hives.

What I’m ashamed to admit about the tree is not that it was half broken or that I was going to need a new tree if, in fact, I wanted to deck the motherfucking halls, it was that it took me finishing the bottom of the tree to note that the top of the tree was missing. I won’t lie: I was ashamed for a couple of minutes before I spent some quality time intensely debating whether or not I should, in fact, leave it as is. Make it a truly Charlie Brown Christmas.

It didn’t take long for the remnants of the tree to make it into the trash.