It has taken me all of my adult life to finally pull the trigger on a fake Christmas tree. This year I did it.
Hell yes I was uncertain about it. The day after we schlepped the 100+ pound box back from CostCo I called my husband in a panic – “Do we still have the receipt? Because I’m seriously rethinking this whole fake Christmas tree thing!” Doug doesn’t save receipts, ever, but of course he still had this receipt. He knows me too well, and had seen this one coming long before we even stepped foot into CostCo.
I grew up with Mrs. Christmas. My mom, who owned a flower shop and a party planning business, made a BIG, STINKING deal out of Christmas every year, even though us kids never really knew what we were celebrating other than how cool it was to get presents. Every year Mrs. Christmas brought home the perfectly proportioned, perfectly tiered, perfectly lit real Nobel Fir even though, for several years, it was so blanketed in flocking it could have been just about anything, real or fake, underneath there.
Each year before the trees came home, my mom’s tree guy performed a little surgery on them to make them picture friggin’ Norman Rockwell perfect. He’d nip a branch here, drill a hole, and tuck a branch there. He’d move parts around, and even use parts from other trees to reshape them so they had a more “natural” appearance. Nothing says Christmas in Beverly Hills like a surgically enhanced “snow” covered tree.
If you count my mom’s trees as real, which technically they were, I’ve only ever had real Christmas trees. Sure, I’ve considered fake trees in the past, but I could just never go there. I am kind of a purist that way. This year, however, it’s different. Flashing back on recent years, I knew I simply COULD NOT face putting lights on another @!#* Christmas tree. I HATE PUTTING THE F*CKING LIGHTS ON THE TREE.
Fake trees come “pre-lit.”
Having been raised by Mrs. Christmas, my tree light thing is undoubtedly some sort of deep seeded childhood hang-up. Regardless of its origin, I am a ridiculous perfectionist when it comes to putting lights on a Christmas tree. Each strand needs to be carefully wrapped around each individual branch and every cord and plug needs to be tucked away, indiscernible to the naked eye. The bulbs need to be pointing out at just the right angle, and in a perfect world, one bulb will land precisely on the tip of each branch. Because I am so neurotic about this, in my house, I do the lights. And, as a rule, they need to be 100% done and impeccable before a single ornament can go on the tree.
This works for me, but not so much for the people I live with. My husband could care less. He loves me despite my neurosis. But our girls, ages 10 and 6, are not at all patient when it comes to waiting the h-o-u-r-s it takes me to perfect the lights. And I really don’t blame them. They’re kids. They’re excited about Christmas. They don’t care about perfect lights. They don’t care about lights at all. They just want to rip open the storage boxes, grab the ornaments and get them up on the tree. It doesn’t even matter where. They want to do what ever it takes to make Christmas happen sooner.
Trying to explain to them why the lights need to go up before the ornaments, and why it takes me so long to get the lights up, gets me exactly nowhere. They just don’t understand that it takes time to be painstakingly neurotic. And when the relentless badgering starts, “Mommy, how much l-o-o-o-nger ’til you’re done with the lights?” or “Mommy, can I put up just this one (darling) ornament I (hand)made in preschool (when I was three)” (guilt, guilt, guilt) I feel myself getting all “Joan Crawford” inside. “DON’T TOUCH THE GODDAMN TREE UNTIL I GET THE GODDAMN LIGHTS FINISHED!” This is what I think about when I think about putting lights on a Christmas tree.
I could blame this year’s switch to fake on my mom for instilling this wacko Christmas light perfection thing in me. Or could blame my kids because they bug the shit out of me while I’m trying to get the damn lights on the tree. Hell, I could even blame it on my astrological sign. Virgo – the perfectionist. Or, I could admit it. Environmental faux-pas or not, forking out $300 for the “9ft. Pre-Lit Artificial Christmas Tree” was about one thing, and one thing only. ME NOT HAVING TO PUT THE F*CKING LIGHTS ON THE TREE.
It’s taken me this long to go fake and, despite the rash of criticism I’m getting from my friends, I’m an instant convert. The tree was, literally, out of the box, up, and PERFECTLY LIT in 20 minutes. A into B, B into C, C into D. No muss, no fuss and no ghosts of “Mommy Dearest” past.
We promptly tossed the CostCo receipt into the fire and got on with the business of putting ornaments on our tree. And just like my mom’s tree surgeon intended it, we sat around our perfect tree, all peaceful and cozy, looking like a friggin’ Norman Rockwell painting.
It’s up, it’s fake, and it’s spectacular.
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December 8, 2009 at 1:58 pm |
I effing love you, and not because your existence means I’m not the only one going Crawford on my kids during the “decorating.” I swear it, if I were the Blessed Virgin Mary I would have yelled at the Baby Jesus this year. “I SAID I WOULD TELL YOU WHEN IT IS TIME FOR THE ORNAMENTS! NO, IT IS NOT TIME. STILL NOT TIME. STILL NOT BLOODY EFFING TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I don’t know if I can go fake… yet. I think I might have one or two more years of misery-making in me yet.
December 11, 2009 at 5:30 am |
I only give you shit because I can. And it’s a privilege to do so. But as a Christmas lover for all my life, I understand completely “cutting to the chase” and getting down to the business of enjoying…emphasis on the “joy.” Your family is lucky to have you, my dear.