Well, we finally picked out our Christmas tree. Though my area is riddled with the usual bunch of lots full of twenty-buck trees run by less-than-jovial folks likely born in Hell, a few years ago we made a tradition of going to one of the smallest lots in the area – not because we liked the people, but because their trees deserved more eyes on them. Our apartment, seeming to shrink by the minute, can no longer handle the 40’ spruces we used to trim. Our new goal is simple: find a nice, semi-small tree and just decorate the holy fuck out of it. With years of thrift store finds and yard sale treasures pulling our amount of tree lights, ornaments and garland up to the point where I literally have to rent out space in my parents’ attic for the rest of the year to house it, our challenge was substantial: with a “slim” tree, how would we ever use all of our ornaments? Here is the story of my Christmas tree…

The lot was small, but even so, they were only filled to about 20% capacity on the tree front. Not a whole lot to pick from, and of the trees available, many were still trapped in those funny nets. Nobody’s gonna buy a tree they can’t see, and the biggest crime to Christmas is a tree unsold. Have you ever driven past a tree lot on Christmas Eve? You’re telling me you don’t feel bad for the poor pathetic trees that nobody wanted? If they could speak, you know what they’d say? Curse words. Lots of them.

Fortunately, they had the kind of trees we were after. There were four of five serviceable entries, each standing about six feet tall, but trim enough to pass off as “small.” The woman and I had a small disagreement over which to buy, but me, being right of course, soon won that battle. At just about the time the guys running the lot started getting pissed about all the mysterious pictures I was taking, I found our Christmas tree and had sex with it.

Beautiful, isn’t she? Oddly enough, small trees cost more than the big ones – this baby was 40 bucks plus tip. Oh well, Christmas only comes once a year, and money is no object when we’re dealing with our only God given excuse to lug a murdered tree in the living room and cover it with blinking lights and Ninja Turtle ornaments. Only Easter’s offering off dyeing eggs can compete in the “think about it and it becomes really strange” department. On the other hand, the whole point of Independence Day is to make everything explode, and three-year-olds dress up like monsters on Halloween. Next time you see a photo spread for Mexico’s Day of the Dead in National Geographic, don’t poke your buddy and laugh at the foreigners. You’re equally nutsy, filthy American.

After telling the mean guy working there that we’d decided on our tree, he went to take a shit in a nearby trailer and returned twenty minutes later ready to be of service. Next thing I knew, my poor beloved tree was being forced through some godforsaken chamber of horrors, exiting in a net with about 15,000 less needles. To the mean guy’s credit, he even drilled a few water holes into the stump. At least, I’m assuming that’s why he did it. Maybe it’s just another of his disgusting fetishes.

I bid him farewell and slipped a bonus fiver in his pocket before lugging to car and realizing that, no, not even small Christmas trees fit inside. Our adventures in getting the thing home involved many open windows, lots of string, more curse words, and one of my three Monkey’s Paw wishes. Throughout the course of this, I managed to split my hands open in at least seven different spots. I looked like I’d just delivered a baby or killed one off. Set to a score of Wham’s “Last Christmas,” it all felt much jollier than it sounds.

When we got the tree to the house, I realized that our already overly-crowded-with-Christmas-crap apartment might not actually have room for it. We managed, barely, and we owe our souls to a bad demon for it.

First up were the lights, then the garland, then about a fourth of our ornaments because we’ve collected enough of them in recent years to drown a pond. My favorites are, of course, the boxes of blown glass beauties from the 50s and 60s, in part because they look great, in part because they’re antiques that will sell well on eBay whenever I get sick of Christmas. They’re fragile, and we seem to break about a dozen of them or so each year, but yeah. Nice. Other favorites include a 1988 Ninja Turtles ornament (featuring all four heroes in Santa garb, caroling), a glass Baby Shamu ornament, and a bunch of clip-on Santa Claus doll/figures that look like Monchichis crossbred with holiday heroes. I’ll try to post up the ten best later this week.

Okay I’m tired of talking. Here’s my tree:

(click pictures to enlarge)

The pictures really don’t do it justice, but please take note of the super-sized Bumble doll wreaking havoc near the top of the tree. Oh, and check out our Christmas trees from 2002 and 2003. I can't believe I have them logged on here.

I love trees, especially Christmas ones.