Decorating the Christmas tree in my house isn't what Rockwell imagined.
"When did titty twister tassels start meaning Christmas?" my son said as he held the golden tassels up to his chest and twirled them. "Seriously, Mom. What the hell?"
Okay, Christmas at my house isn't even safe for the Baby Jesus.
We're not a religious sort. My husband is a Christian (more out of tradition, I suspect, than anything else) My kids have never even set foot in a church. I have no idea what sort of spiritual ideas they claim to hold. I know The Girl joined an atheist group in her freshman year but she quit after two meetings because they were "such condescending assholes". The Boy tried reading the Bible but after reading the book of Job he declared that Yahweh was "a prick" and refused to give his "precious, precious belief juice over to somebody that would dick you around like that."
Don't even ask what I am. I am what I am. Move along...
So, Christmas for us is more a secular experience. Yeah. We're in it for the loot.
Anyway, back to the tree...
There were signs this wasn't going to be a family friendly experience.
I interrupted my son's Skyrim game to start up the festivities. That was strike number one.
We ventured into the colon of the house, i.e. the garage, and located the tree. We've had it for years, lots of years. Still in the original box. It's damn near a heirloom.
"What is that weird smell?" The Boy said as he picked up his end. "And why is my end wet?"
Shit. The phantom cat pisser had struck again.
But, LO! a Christmas miracle was at hand! The pisser did not sully the tree within! NO! Only the box outside fell victim to the foul feline stream.
"The tree is okay! Look. All the pieces and parts are fine. We can still use it!"
"Great." The Boy picked through the assorted tree limbs. "Hey, what part goes where?"
"It's color coordinated. There is colored paint on the tips. There's an instruction sheet in the box. See it?"
"No. There's no sheet."
"No problem. We'll just put them together by their colored tips and just figure it out."
"Yeah, that's going to be hard since the paint has scrapped off."
Strike two.
Hey, look, I said the tree was old.
We dumped the tree out downstairs and brought the branches up to the living room. I let the kids sort them out by size. By that I mean, I let them fight and bicker. I fluffed up the top part of our tree which we dubbed "the Shoggoth" and clamped it to the metal pole that played the part of tree trunk with all the finesse of a Frankenstein.
In the end, we had a tree that looked like something that might very well pillage villages if given the right amount of electric shock.
"It looks swaybacked." The Girl critiqued. "Like it has scoliosis."
Well, that much better for the villagers.
Then came time to decorate.
The Boy pulled out a long red icicle ornament. "Look, Jesus-cicles!"
"What??!?!"
"I read somewhere these represented the blood Jesus shed on the cross."
"Gross!" The Girl cried out.
"You think that's gross? Don't even ask about the red stripes on a candy cane."
"Where do you find stuff like that, Boy?"
He put the Jesus-cicle on the tree. "Internet."
Strike three.
You can imagine how the rest of the day went. Below is a short list of their best zingers:
"Look at this reindeer. Look at its eyes. This is a deer that has seen things that can't be unseen."
"This snowman is froggy. Look at him. He is ready for a fight."
"Cool. Put him over here next to the rapey elf. They can duke it out."
"I could stab someone to death with this. Look. It has some serious weight behind it."
"This Santa has a scythe. Look! What the hell is that supposed to be?"
"Put it in the back so the neighbors can see it and know we mean business. Do Not Fuck with a Death Santa."
Oy.
2 comments:
There should be pictures
We're more on the religious end of things, but we, too, had some insane things come by combining two teenagers and a toddler with a gingerbread village kit. Good times, good times.
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