I couldn't stand the holiday stress anymore, so I brought the Christmas tree downstairs from Mike's closet. I don't get stressed about whether we will have Christmas, or whether Santa will really deliver, or even whether the weather will be bad. I worry, starting about Halloween, where I will put the Christmas tree.
Every year since 1997, the year we moved to the condo, the tree has been in the same corner of the living room. Every year I go though anxious mental gyrations and aerobic cleaning and furniture-shoving before the tree gets into place.
This afternoon I decided I would rather get it over with than worry for another week. I wrote not very long ago about wanting to burn much of my furniture in a big bonfire out in the parking lot. Then I came up with a plan to feed the Friday lunch gang a really great meal of baked ham, twice-baked potatoes, and Klondikes, then beg them to carry the armchair to the dumpster and somehow boost it up and over the top. I explained my plan to my youngest, and he said, "But, Mommmmmmmmmm, I sit in that chair."
So, I was back to the furniture-shoving, dusting, cobweb-battling. What happened next is difficult to explain. I took the ceiling fan/light fixture over the dining table apart to wash off the "velour" of grease and dust. By comparison, putting up the tree is simple. The base opens. The three sections fit together. Then comes the labor intensive "froofing" of the branches into something vaguely reminiscent of a live tree after their long year squished in the box. Froofing requires hours of perserverance, an artist's eye, and a high tolerance for being poked and scratched. It also requires a lot of light for these old eyes. I know that when I look at the tree by the morning light, I will see that further froofing is required.
Then, and only then, I will put the lights on the tree. And that's a different dilemma. Stay tuned. If you drive, don't froof, and if you froof, froof sensibly.
No comments:
Post a Comment