"The notion that such persons are gay of heart and carefree is curiously untrue. They lead, as a matter of fact, an existence of jumpiness and apprehension. They sit on the edge of the chair of Literature. In the house of Life they have the feeling that they have never taken off their overcoats."
- James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Aw, Christmas tree.

I meant to have this post earlier, like yesterday, but I took pictures with my phone and mailed them to my email in order to post them here. It sounds convoluted, but it gets worse. The pictures took For.Ever. to get to my inbox, and I could have just downloaded them from my phone but I was too lazy to go dig out the cable.

Sue me, I'm a day late.

Anywho... on Monday, when I completed Decorating, Round One, I posted this picture of the tree to Facebook. Everyone oooh'd and aaah'd over its beauty, and I told them all Christmas trees look beautiful in the dark with twinkling lights. In the daylight, my tree looks like ornaments have flung themselves, willy nilly, at the branches. Don't believe me?

Here's the proof. There is no rhyme or reason to this. Angels, trains, golf balls and horses all clump together. If this was a novel, it would be one of those experimental pieces of literary fiction that would be hailed as genuis by that community out there who never believes a cigar is just a cigar. Don't be fooled. This tree is a hot mess. And why is there a string of plastic pearls running around?

Because it was in the box of decorations, and when I decorate for Christmas, I firmly believe in gilding the lily. Excess is not enough.

Let's add to the merriment with a side shot: Turns out, the tree trunk takes a slight list to starboard halfway up, a fact that I didn't see while I was evaluating the tree's worthiness on a hillside. The bottom trunk looked straight, which it is. The top half careens like a drunken sailor. This is why we tie the tree to the wall every year. Fishing line: it's not just for catching your limit.

It works out, though. Every evening, I sit on the couch with the lights aglow, a fresh smell of pine in the room, and toast the tree with a glass of wine. The tree's had enough.

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