Picking out a Christmas tr-eee! eee! eee!

When it comes to Christmas, the Mosimans are more Norman Bates than Norman Rockwell. Never more so then when you give us a reason to wield sharp objects such as axes and saws. We do not skip merrily through the magical Christmas tree forest, singing cheerful holiday songs. More than likely, we are huffing and puffing, cursing and complaining as we stomp through the snow. My husband is the exception to the rule. He loves tradition, even if he has to drag us kicking and screaming through the frickin' forest.

Fortunately for us, we had, long ago, found the equivalent to the Island of Misfit Toys simply by turning left at the Wooded Glade of Eccentric Evergreens. We have NEVER, in thirty years of diligent searching (Brad searching...the girls and I complaining), found anything comparable to a normal tree. Just scraggly, Seuss-y samples that suited us perfectly. 

So here we were, just Brad and I, in the middle of our Christmas tree forest, having our yearly argument, listing LOUDLY, the pros and cons of blue spruce. "It cuts me to ribbons," I complained, "They should have named it a porcu-pine." "It holds its needles a long time," Brad battled back. "Needle retention isn't nearly as important as determining which tree causes the least amount of blood-letting," I snapped. 

The phone suddenly rang. Somewhere, on the opposite coast, my eldest daughter had felt an unexpected chill and was compelled to call. "What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously as I stormed away from Brad's choice. "Your father is trying to get me stabbed," I told her. "Are you Christmas tree hunting?" she deduced, demanding "Let's Facetime!" 

I had thought it couldn't get any worse. 

I was obviously wrong.

Savannah, joined by our darling friend, Lisa, peered out from the safety of my climate-controlled screen and began directing our route. "Left," they shouted in delight, "Oooo...look at that one!" We had to inspect each of their choices from all angles until they finally...Did you read that carefully, dearest Reader?... THEY finally settled on the perfect choice. A blue spruce. 

"There's a giant gap in it," I complained as I began sawing away at this giant pincushion of a pine. Yeah...I sawed it. I made a GIANT mistake by firmly declaring that I don't saw trees rather than faking a debilitating hand injury like I usually do. So, in the name of equality, I Paul-Bunyan-ed that bastard down.

Then there was the usual stuffing of the too-big tree into the too-small bed of my truck. What is it with my normally super-safety-conscious husband who will suddenly lose his mind when it comes to transporting large items?  "Looks good," he'll shrug and next thing you know, there are a dozen church tables dealt out like a hand of Texas Hold'em on Main Street in Warsaw, or a bathtub/shower combo unit flying down a two-lane highway or my tree doing a tuck-and-roll dive onto a country road. 

Somehow, we made it home, more or less intact. We wrestled it into the living room, to the dachshund's delight. Drinking from the water stand really appeals to her inner wiener-wolf. Brad and I took in our tree that was currently taking up the room. Literally...TAKING UP THE ROOM. Our two genius phone consultants obviously did not factor in width. Entering and exiting my living room was like pushing through a not-so-amusing amusement park turnstile. A turnstile that stabs you as you maneuver through it. Stupid blue spruce.

"Maybe you could do something about that," Brad said casually as he slid out the door to address the battery problem in our car...more on THAT later...I eyed up the murderous monument in my living room and went to work. I bonsai-ed the ever-loving daylights out of that tree. Edward Scissorhands had nothing on me. There could be only one victor here...and clearly, that would be me.

From his vantage point in the driveway, Brad could make out the shadowy outline of what looked to be a Christmas tree through our darkened living room window. With fear in his heart, he slowly walked into the house, not sure what he would find. Among the carnage of needles and boughs littering the floor, he spotted his wife, covered in sap, hacking at his holiday tree. "Stop it, you psycho," he said, carefully removing the shears from her shaking hand. "Don't worry," he said to calm her, "At Christmas, we all go a little mad sometimes."