Unfortunately, my husband will not allow me to take a yuletide snow check, so on a dreary Sunday afternoon, he drug me to the only place the Swiss enjoy more than the bank: a ginormous Christmas warehouse filled with robotic polar bears, angels, pink poinsettias, and tree after tree after tree.
In my defense, my objection to a Christmas tree is only partially because I hate foliage---I was even so kind as to suggest a pleasant, synthetic tree that he could decorate to his enormous heart's desire. You see, the problem with an authentic, bona fide pine is that it triggers my OCD much in the same way as raw poultry, elevator buttons, and porta potties: it's likely contaminated.
I think most of my reasonable, level-headed readers would agree that trees belong in their natural habitat, just as cheetahs belong in the wild and Britney Spears belongs in the music industry. Yet somehow, my husband rejected this notion, and lo and behold, we bought a damn shrub.
I have inspected, reinspected, and sawed off enough branches to ensure that no spiders survived the journey to our upstairs living room, and just for good measure, I checked the trunk for coiled reptiles that could slither or climb their way into Amelia's tiny airway.
|Isn't she a beaut!|
Fortunately, Kris Kingle has yet to get around to decorating, and the fact that the tree remains ornament-less is actually to my benefit---I have no chance of knocking down a ceramic candy cane when I stalk around the tree each night, threatening to wake my husband from dreams of sleigh bells and figgy pudding.