Christmas time is here again. Its not the Christmas music playing everywhere that tipped me off; stores have been playing Christmas music since the middle of August. 
It’s also not because of all the Christmas cards that we’ve been getting with what appear to be stamped signatures and false wishes of warmth. Don’t get me wrong, there are certain Christmas cards I love getting; but the one from the car dealership in a state we don’t live in anymore wishing us a “profitable” 2008 seemed a little false. (Profitable for who, anyway?)
But we love Christmas Season. As Michelle puts it, it’s ChowDownTime plus Presents. That equals Awesomeness, for those of you who are weaker in the math department. In equation form, it’s
ChowDownTime + Presents = Awesomeness
In essence, it’s all the best parts of Thanksgiving, plus you get presents.
Since we celebrate Sinterklaas, the season starts for us the first weekend after the 6th, which is when we get a Christmas Tree. Every year, Michelle and I have the same struggle: she wants a Christmas Tree that is at least four feet taller than our ceiling and has a girth somewhere between two and three times what our house can accommodate. I have input on which trees I do and don’t like and Michelle does her best to find something that will fit in our place, but once Michelle has her heart set on a particular tree, my protests have limited influence. To be fair, I am easily swayed by a quick estimation of how much loot we’ll be able to fit under the bigger trees. Needless to say, Santa’s got his work cut out for him.
Due to our powers of self-restraint, we usually come home with a tree that’s only about two feet taller than our ceiling. The tree has to get shoved into a corner in our house between the front wall and our bookcase which houses our stereo. You can imagine how much fun it is to turn the stereo on or off, or to swap out records on the record player with pine branches poking me in the ass and going up my shirt. “Tree Hugger” doesn’t begin to describe it.
After pruning the tree from both ends and getting it set up in the house, the real fun begins. Michelle insists on having about 100,000 lights on the tree, with the trunk cloaked entirely in light so it glows from the inside out. (Don’t worry, we live near a fire station, and I’m told they’ve got our backs.)
Since I’m taller, I’m the one who “gets” to put the lights on the tree. This involves getting maimed by the tree’s branches and needles, and getting into a life-or-death struggle with the strings of lights which insist on tangling no matter how carefully I roll them up. I invariably fall into cursing fits, it’s part of my process. Michelle remedies this by buying me a bottle of Scotch of my choosing, which I get to bust open as the first lights go onto the tree. The downside of the deal is that I’m not allowed to swear once it’s open.
It’s that bottle of The Balvenie Founder’s Reserve that tells me it’s Christmas Season.
