It’s that time again. Soft music is playing. The fireplace is lit. Romance, of sorts, is in the air. It’s time for the annual erection of the Christmas tree. Ahem. We have other more regular erections, thank you for asking. But this one is HUGE!
You know the warning on the Viagra that says something like, “if you have an erection lasting more than 4 hours, call a doctor.” Last year’s erection of our tree took us 8 Godforsaken hours. I should have called paramedics. Maybe they could have helped us with the lights.
After spending 13 lucky Christmas’ together now, Ken and I have finally come up with some ground rules. We both haul the tree and all the many boxes of decorations up the stairs. We both build the tree, help fluff the branches and work endlessly to straighten it. I test the lights, but then I sit down while Ken insists on putting enough lights on the tree to power a small city. If you’ve noticed a brown out in your region, now you know why. In the time that it takes him to place the hundreds of lights on the tree, I can have a relaxing lunch, a day at the spa….a night out.
For years, we’ve almost come to blows over the lights. I like a good glow as much as the next gal, but I was convinced that our tree could be seen from Outer Space. I trust that all those aboard the International Space Station were marveling at our tree with every orbit. My concern wasn’t that Martians were going to find our house; I would welcome them with open arms, a Vulcan V hand-signal and a cheery “Na-nou”. I was frankly more concerned about the fire hazard, never mind the electric bill.
Our tree is down a string this year because half the bulbs have gone out, thanks to good old Chinese quality manufacturing. I think it’s perfect. I’m sure Ken disagrees and will soon be off to Canadian Tire to clear the shelves. In the meantime, our Bat Signal has dimmed, but our tree is erect.
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