tour of our christmas tree

I just finished our tree tonight and I thought I’d give you a blurry crappy cell phone photo tour of it. I mean, a blurry crappy tour is better than none, right? Well, actually, no. No, it’s not, Trace. Nonetheless, we proceed apace, undaunted by crap, which is basically how one must approach life, I suppose.

With the exception of the shiny balls on our tree — because I love shiny balls and who doesn’t, ahem — everything on our tree is paper. Most of the decorations were homemade by me eons ago when we were newlyweds and poor and starving. Now we’re oldyweds and poor and starving, so paper it is! Still!

Here we go. Do not adjust your computer screens. Do not call your ophthalmologist immediately for an appointment re: your nonexistent glaucoma. The photos are just that blurry, but let’s call it atmospheric and old timey, okay?

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One of my painted paper angels and one of my “hope/joy/love” tags. These are scattered throughout. Our tree is a talker, what can I say? Oh, and I sort of drape this stuff called excelsior into and around the tree. See it poking out under the “joy” tag? It’s basically that throwaway stuff that lines the bottom of the Christmas basket you got at work filled with those snootsie Ferrero Rocher candies that everybody is supposed to like but nobody really does. But the stuff is all kinky and curly and I love the way it makes the tree sprrroing out at you. Our tree looks very …. lively in person. I can honestly say I’ve never seen another tree with excelsior on it. When I bought my supply this year for 3 whole bucks, the lady at the floral supply said, “Baskets, huh?” And I said, “Actually, I put it on my tree.” I wish I could have snapped a blurry crappy photo of the funny look she gave me, as if she were thinking, “You put trash on your tree?” Uhm, peaches, I put trash on my head, so there.

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Let’s see. (Boy, these are seriously crappy photos.) On the very left is the “twist” of a wired paper ribbon I made. There are 4 sections of this on the tree. Next to it is one of my gold paper snowflakes. A “joy” tag. Another angel. A portion of the pale gold and sheer white ribbon star garland I made one year from what was at hand. You know, that said, I’m kind of surprised the whole tree isn’t done up in Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrappers. Maybe next year. MB and I had better get crackin’ on that now then. Lots ‘o’ Reese’s to eat.

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More wired paper ribbon. In the middle of the shot, though, is one of my mom’s quilling pieces. Isn’t it gorgeous? She gave MB and I a few dozen of these for our first Christmas together. I think it’s the best present she’s ever given me. They’re so delicate and very time-consuming to make. I treasure them.

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Around the bottom of our tree, I hang Christmas cards MB and I have given each other over the years. More talking on the tree! This one is my favorite. It has a quote I love from Anton Chekhov: We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels. We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.

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More of the bottom, with one of the larger gold snowflakes hanging amongst the cards.

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The top. Just a plain red papier mache star, some plaid Christmas ribbon because I’m a sucker for plaid Christmas ribbon, and a pop-up angel card from years ago. Actually, I need to futz with the lights so it looks a bit more “lit” up there.

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A jumble of stuff. Clearly. (Or not so clearly.)

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The tree unlit — and actually, not entirely finished in this shot. You can’t really see the full sproingy action in this photo, but it’s there, it’s there. Papery and wonky. I like how the cards and snowflakes give the tree some kicky pleats.

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Daytime tree.

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The tree lit up, ablaze.

Thanks for coming on this blurry crappy photo tour of our tree, pippa.

a sunday afternoon in autumn

~ I’m making a Savory Roquefort Cheesecake topped with the thinnest sliced pears and an apricot glaze. It’s “savory,” you see, not a sweet cheesecake at all, so MB is aflame with savory bleu cheese lust. Maybe he can spare me some of that later? If he’s able to move after all the gorging, that is?

~ Football is on in the background even when our could-win-every-game-but-simply-choose-not-to Chargers aren’t playing. It’s the soundtrack of autumn for us.

~ Seen: Random bouts of nudity. The first Christmas commercial.

~ Heard (or maybe said): “You can’t start the day grumpy at me. You have to wait til the end, when you have just cause.”

~ Tasted: Trader Joe’s Greek Honey Yogurt with granola and pears. YUM. Also coffee, of course.

~ Sometimes, like now, I sit and worry about my corrupting influence over my nephews and nieces. Yesterday, my SIL was calling Original Banshee, now 7, to come upstairs. Her reply? “I’ll be there in a minute, peaches!” Uhmmmm ………. yeah, well. Sorry, peaches.

~ Both Banshee Sisters are very interested in the whole “peaches” thing and decided, while we were driving to take them to Dairy Queen, that they too wanted to be called by some type of food moniker. Who doesn’t? So I told OB I wanted to call her Butterbean but she just squinched her nose at me and didn’t like Butterbean at all, which is totally unfathomable, obviously. She decided instead on French Toast or “Frenchy” for short.

“What will you be, Tee Tee?”

“I’m feeling kinda Pop Tarty today.”

“Okay, Poppy!”

And I was Poppy from then on.

Baby Banshee, now 3, wanted to be Whipped Cream.

“But you can call me Whipped, Tee Tee!”

MB and I started howling, shaking hard in our seats. For the rest of the day, that was her name. She insisted we call her “Whipped.” She’s our little oddling. I love her.

~ Through our bedroom window this morning, I heard the toddler boy who lives next door saying goodbye to his dad, his high-pitched voice chirping, “I will be a GOOD boy today, Daddy!” and I started to tear up, just slipping on my shoes, at the thoroughgoing innocence of it all.

~ Worth noting, I never make such promises to my dad anymore because I know I cannot keep them.

snippet

Sunday morning, trying to park at our new favorite coffeehouse. The lot is crowded.

ME: It’s all the Buddhists here for temple. Or whatever.
HE: Guess so.
ME: There’d better not be a line out the door because of them.
HE: Yeah.
ME: Besides, they’re not supposed to have desires, so what are they doing in line for coffee? Get outta the way, Buddhists! We’re Christians! We have desires!
HE: Yes. Deep dark …….. desires.
ME: That’s right.
HE: So outta my way or I’ll one-hand clap your ass!
ME: You tell ’em, babe.

random snippets

I have nothing to be upset about and that makes me upset.

**********

Heaven is gonna have to be mindblowing and it’s not gonna be about “really good pizza,” all right?

**********
(Woman sitting several feet away from us in the diner reeks of smoke. We are engulfed.)

ME: Good Lord. She’s like the Pig Pen of smoking.

**********

Okay. Getting back to your earlier stupid statement ……

**********

HE: My coffee reflection makes me look really old.
ME: What?
HE: When I look into my coffee cup and see my reflection in the coffee, I look really old.
ME: You mean, IN the coffee itself?
HE: Yes.
ME: Are you serious?
HE: Yes.
ME: That’s insane. You actually look at your reflection IN your coffee?
HE: Yes.
ME: Nuts. I had no idea.
HE: It’s true. I look terrible.
ME: Okay. This conversation is totally backwards. That sounds like the kind of crap I’m usually spewing.
HE: Well, there you have it.

(pause)

ME: You know, if it’s any consolation, no one’s looking at you through coffee goggles, okay?

**********

puppy voice

While stopped at a neighborhood intersection, MB and I see a fluffy husky puppy jumping up on its owner with that certain joie de vivre that only puppies can have. That certain joie de vivre that really makes you wish you were a puppy too. That certain joie de vivre that really makes you want to kick that puppy square in the ass because you don’t have that certain joie de vivre at all.

Since I don’t want to be hauled off to jail for kicking a puppy square in the ass, and since the puppy, you see, he moves me, I start talking in the puppy voice. The puppy voice that all women have hardwired into their DNA. The puppy voice that drives men crazy because they secretly have a puppy voice too and wish they could come out of the closet and just admit they have a puppy voice too.

Ohhh! He’s so cute! Ohhhh! I want him, ooooohhhh, awwwww, he’s just a baby, awwwwwww. Etc.

This goes on for longer than is humanly acceptable, even with just MB around. Even if no one were around, it’s just empirically gross and God can still hear me, right? I’m aware it’s sickening even while I do it, that I’ve bid a fond boo-bye to my dignity, but it can’t be helped. It’s the puppy’s fault. I am possessed by the puppy. I am not myself. It’s beyond my control, to randomly quote Dangerous Liaisons.

Finally, MB rolls his eyes and says with a nervous laugh borne of deep inner distress, “Uhm, can I talk to Tracey now?”

I fall silent in an instant, knowing that that stupid puppy has forced me to cross that cutesy line that no wife should ever cross in front of her husband. Because I know in my heart of hearts I’ve become “other,” one of those Care Bear people who make me want to gag, I slowly move my index finger up and down and say in the Danny voice that everybody has, “Tracey isn’t here, Mrs. Torrance.”

My Danny voice is good, damn good, I say, and we both burst out laughing, precious puppy and the voice it produces utterly trumped by the Danny voice. As it should be.

Let’s face it. The Danny voice can kick the puppy voice square in the ass.

And all is right with our world again.

Until we see another puppy ……

sometimes

Sometimes your beloved works the Katy Perry show and sends you a visual love note using official Katy Perry paraphernalia:

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You know, sometimes.

random snippets

Two weekends ago ……..

ME: (on waking up, first words of the day) It’s my birthday! Your day is gonna suuuuuuuuck!!
HE: Oh, brother.

**********
Later …..

ME: Okay. It’s my birthday. No documentaries about weirdos.
HE: All right.
ME: That’s your birthday.
HE: Yes, haha.
ME: I want something funny where people die hideous deaths. I need it to feed my inner rage.
HE: Oh, okay.

**********

ME: I’m gonna spank you like a somma bits!
HE: What? That’s not how you say it!
ME: Sure, it is. I just said it.
HE: You’re hopeless.

**********

ME: What’s the name of that movie again? Sweet Fatty Sauceback?
HE: No! That’s not it! It’s Sweet Sweetback’s Badass Song.
ME: I like mine better.
HE: It’s not better.
ME: They should change it.
HE: No, they shouldn’t.
ME: Come on! Sweet Fatty Sauceback? I wanna see a movie about him!

snippets

ME: She looks like an old-timey clothespin.

*******
HE: I’ll be a few minutes.
ME: It’s okay. I can wait. I’m not 2.
(a pause)
ME: I’m more like 3.

*******
HE: He’s better when he’s not trying to be impressive.
ME: People are rarely at their best when they’re trying to be impressive.
HE: True.
ME: That’s why I’m so great.
HE: Oh?
ME: I am totally unimpressive.
HE: Oh, I see your plan there.

*******
HE: Facebook messes with the established social order of high school. It’s wrong.

marital honesty

HE: You know, sometimes you are so brilliant and sometimes you are just a tard.

I laughed my ass off.

cards

The only mothers it is safe to forget on Mother’s Day are the good ones. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic’s Notebook, 1960
**********

The other day, I asked MB to pick up some Mother’s Day cards, one for his mom and one for mine.

“Do NOT get a funny card for my mom. She’ll get pissed. It needs to be smushy.”

He sighed.

“I know. Don’t worry. I’ll find something.”

He came home that night with two cards: a perfectly charming funny card for his mom that cost all of 2.50 and a two-dimensional floral cutout card for my mom that cost 7 bucks. It even came with a gold seal for you to affix to the back of the card after you seal the envelope, so she will know she’s special, dammit. Real fancy schmancy stuff.

Problem was, it said “For you” on the front and didn’t have any smushy sentiments on the inside. Just something like “Hoping you have a wonderful Mother’s Day.”

Uh-oh.

“So this was 7 bucks?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Okay. Well … it IS really pretty.”

The conversational barometer spiked slightly.

“I’m sorry, hon. All the smushy ones were too smushy. ‘Oh, you’re an angel, Mother,’ blah blah. I knew you couldn’t hang with those.”

“True.”

“I couldn’t agree with any of them at all.”

“Okay. No, it’s a beautiful card, babe. I believe you when you say it was the best one there. I just know how mom will look at it.”

Hm. I was turning into “that wife.” I could feel it. That wife who asks her husband to do something and then, when he does it, criticizes it because it’s not just so. Oh. I was turning into my mom. Over a Mother’s Day card.

MB sighed.

“I know.”

“Like Happy Mother’s Day to a Special Lady.”

He laughed a short laugh.

“I know.”

“I’m being a bitch. I’m sorry. I hate Mother’s Day.”

“I know.”

He just hugged me.

Still, I knew I had to zhuzh that card up, as Carson Kressley says, so the next day I scoured the Internet for quotes about mothers. I’m not kidding. I did. Something to plump up the sentiment factor. Something that didn’t make me feel like a sellout or a liar. Something that wouldn’t make me barf. The one at the top of this post was my favorite, actually, and I read it to MB.

“Yeah. Don’t put THAT in the card.”

“No. Obviously.”

I finally found a Victor Hugo quote — Mom loves Victor Hugo because dead people are easy to love — and wrote that on the card along with a vaguely smushy personal sentiment. I sealed the envelope with the Brownie-point winning gold seal, sighed a huge sigh, and handed it to MB to mail along with the low-maintenance card to his mom.

“I hate Mother’s Day,” I muttered.

“I know,” he said.