Turkey reduced to carcass and cranberries mucking up the disposal, our attention shifts to the time-honored tradition of tree selection.
Opposed to plastic, I insist on genuine Greensleeves and nothing bonds an exhausted family better than traipsing through the woods with a rusty saw and flaring tempers. Ah yes, the perfect Christmas tree, the Big-Foot elusive Frazier Fur atop Mount I-Want-To-Go-Home.
This year, however, with late Thanksgiving and early Chanukah, our expedition waylaid due to lingering guests and poor weather. (Never chop in sleet. Case in point – Uncle Lefty.) And although the delay drives my Type-A scheduling habits into fidget mode, the extra days provide prep time the chore desperately needs.
First, bungee cords. I vaguely recollect hurling a fistful across the garage after last year’s bounce-back maiming. This year – catcher’s mask.
Second, tree stand. It’s in the basement – Waldo’s summer home. Buy new.
Third, lights. Liquor store adjacent to tree farm. (Brilliant marketing!)
Fourth, ornaments. Don’t you hate it when “I’ll put them somewhere safe” becomes “Where the hell did I put them?” Gingko Nog.
Fifth, tree skirt. Vow to self – No Batman bed sheet.
Basics covered, it is best to approach the evergreen experience with an open mind and full stomach. Hungry choppers are hurried choppers; nothing dampens Christmas more than a family of field mice making camp in your stocking. Always check for livestock before strapping the final selection on the sap drenched mini-van. Leave the great outdoors, outdoors. Did we learn nothing from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation?