saint-louise's Diaryland Diary

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Next up: full-contact gift-wrapping.

Id like to try something new, in order to put a bit more variety into what I write here. Each Monday, I will either ask someone from Diaryland, or take an unsolicited suggestion, for what topic I should write about. Some experience from my childhood. Music. My most recent vacation. Whether cladistics or the Linnean system is the most accurate and efficient form of categorization for life forms. You know: interesting stuff.

I had taken a suggestion from my brother to write about trick-or-treating stories from my past. This came well before Halloween, but as we all know Im a big jerkface mcjerk, and I cannot seem to update with any regularity. So Ill let that one rest for the time being, and come back to it when the earth has made nearly a full pass around the sun. Ive set my alarm clock for it.

Anyway, Ill give it another go on Monday. Lets see how long this lasts, shall we?

I have such faith in myself. I know you all do, too.

I went scouting for a fake Christmas tree yesterday. When I informed the offspring that I wanted to go with the falsies from now on, she was aghast.

ButI like the real trees! she said, gazing at me with doe eyes. I like the smell of them. And with a fake tree you dont get to water it!

Get to water it? I had to remind myself a) shes eight years old and doesnt realize how the novelty of almost any situation can wear thin within minutes (maybe if I got an outhouse, shed get the point?), and b) she doesnt actually get to water the tree anyway. Therefore, her statement should have been more along the lines of: And with a fake tree I dont get to watch on a nightly basis as you sprawl on the floor, inch your way commando-style under the branches, shove them upward and then look with panic at the wavering tree, wondering if it is going to come crashing down, wrench your wrist sideways trying to force the cup of water through the branches to get to the tree stand, pour the entire cup out, muttering obscenities just low enough that I cant quite make out whats being said, check the water level in the stand and realize that youve poured a good 80% of the water on the carpet outside of the stand, give one really loud, half-edited curse along the lines of son of a crapstick, DAMN it all, DAMNDAMN, and then emerge with a head full of needles to start the process all over again.

And, if thats the case, I can kind of see her point of view. Id get a kick out of watching someone else do that, too. It must be the mean streak in both of us.

Genetics. What a wonderful thing.

I can only imagine the glee she must feel as she watches me trying to remove the dead, needle-shedding tree from our home after New Years Day.

So, looking for the fake tree, I came across the perfect specimen.

Eight feet tall. Perfect. Check.
Noble fir-style. Perfect. Check.
Two hundred fifty dollars. Piss off. Check.

I stood in front of the trees on display, and swore fiercely at them. I didnt realize how strange this was for me to do, until I noticed that other customers were staring at me. It seemed like the right action at the time. After all, the inanimate plastic of the trees was most certainly to blame for the high price. Obviously.

Im going to do some more scouting, since Im fairly certain that part of the cost of the tree had to do with the fact that it was pre-lit. However, I realize that purchasing the fakey (meaning false, not backward am I hip yet?) will save me so much more money over the years.

I just havent convinced the miserly part of me of that truth. She wants her money and to eat it, too. Mmmm. Roughage.

Or maybe shes also a big fan of the commando-tree-watering ritual.

12:56 p.m. - 2003-11-21

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