saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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O Tannenbaum...pass the bottle opener...
I work right next to an exposition center. I get to see all sorts of fun comings and goings. I get to curse at people who park in our building�s garage and walk across to the classic cars show. I spend many a supposed-to-be-productive-right-now hour at work, staring out the window in wonder at how many people show up for the strangest shows. (The record breaker? You�ll never guess. It was a scrapbooking show. So many cars, they had to call in parking attendants, and section off a part of the street to avoid traffic jams. I just haven�t the words.)
Last week, the expo center had �The Festival of Trees� where all different types of Christmas trees were displayed, in their shining, glowing, flashing, gaudy, spectacular, have-nothing-to-do-with-the-background-of-a-religious-holiday glory.
Anyway, there were snackies. There were ornaments. There was even a fucking show choir.
The sheer volume of tacky, tacky, TACKINESS that was in that building filled me with glee. I could feel it pulsating with all the Forces of Tawdriness.
Of course, I wanted to go to this stupid tree show, for two very good reasons: 1) My daughter would have loved it. LOVED IT. 2) I, as you may all know, love. Shiny. Things. LOVE THEM.
Enough said.
Of course, OH was reluctant to join us, and I can see his point of view. Just the thought of going there conjured a feeling in me like I get at the thought of going to Disneyland: determined, ecstatic DREAD.
It would have been fun. Oh, yes. It would. No doubt. There would be fun to be had.
But I would have left the expo center wanting to kill every last individual within a five mile radius.
On top of that, on Friday night, OH piped up, �You have to be prepared for a scene when we go to that tree show on Saturday.�
I nodded knowingly. �Yes. Taylor does tend to get excitable.�
�No,� OH said, with a grim smile. �I mean me. You know they have a Budweiser tree there.�
I furrowed my brow, trying to picture such a tree (and failing), then trying to picture why someone would create a Christmas tree for a brand of beer (and failing), and then pushing out of my consciousness the tiny, nagging voice that told me I knew damned well why there was a beer tree at the expo center and it was the same reason people binge drink and get the Tasmanian Devil tattooed on their asses.
�I did not know that,� I said, finally, my brain issuing smoke and a slight odor of burning tissue. �But now I do. Thank god. Why will there be a scene with you and this tree? Are you going to try to suckle at it?�
�No,� OH said again, looking at me with exasperation, as he does when he thinks I�m serious (which, at this point in our relationship, should be never). �People got all offended that there was a beer tree at the show, and they complained, so they covered it up with ribbons. I�m going to be so pissed when I see it.�
I nodded, calmly and knowingly. �Yes, that is ridiculous, covering up the tree. I mean, do people really think that THAT particular Christmas tree on display is going to make everyone who sees it into a raging alcoholic, let alone run right out a get a beer? My, my. Silly, silly people.�
I paused, and OH seemed satisfied with this answer.
�You know what would really show them how silly they�re being?� I continued.
�Hm?�
�A grown man making a scene in the middle of a Christmas tree show because they covered the beer tree with ribbons.�
Another pause.
�You know, babe,� said OH, �I love you so much, I could kill you. A lot.�
�Thank you. I feel the same way.�
We kiss.
Curtain.
3:21 p.m. - 2003-12-08
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