Christmas time in our house gets pretty bizarro. First, there’s the sheer number of ugly-ass Christmas ornaments passed down by our various families from the depression era (when they sent out a bulletin saying “By order of the United States Government, we are rationing everything attractive and/or delicious, so you can only eat beets and cabbage, and your ornaments have to be made from discarded hobo underpants, and look like the undead”).
Second, Chris has this holdover relic from his academy days called “The Bachelor Tree.” I think it was $19.99 at Walgreens back in 2000, which was clearly overpriced. It’s an artificial evergreen that is about 4.5′ tall, but is called a 6′ tree because of the 1.5′ green stick that juts straight up in the air. It’s mangled and sheds plastic green needles, and it’s got either spiderwebs or cotton on it…I can’t really tell. He won’t get rid of it until we’re married.
My answer to this has been “The Bachelorette Tree,” which is a 3′ tall hot pink tinsel tree with aggressively pink lights built in. It looks like the exact tree a transvestite midget would see if they closed their little over-made-up, midgety eyes and wished really hard for the perfect Christmas tree. Terrifying.
A white owl made of real feathers, which looks just like Hedwig from Harry Potter, tops the big tree. It’s a long story that involves Notre Dame and pigeon noises, but I’ll spare you the details. The bachelorette tree is now topped by a chipmunk made of broom straw. Good stuff.
I brought this home a few days ago actually, and put it in Chris’s office behind his desk. I waited, ever so patiently, for him to discover it on his own. He was carrying a stack of textbooks to his office, so I followed. He opened the door, froze, then THREW his stack of textbooks at our president elect, letting out an almighty shriek. I started to laugh so hard I was nearly peeing in my pants, naturally. Chris got pretty defensive and told me that the scream and throwing of items was a “very masculine defensive technique.” Allllllriiiight….so I guess we see a whole lot of very masculine defensive techniques coming from very breast-intensive co-eds in cliched horror movies, too.
I’m a hypocrite, though. About, oh…twice a day, I walk into the room, see him hanging out by the Christmas trees wearing his Broncos santa hat, and I get completely startled. No defensive gestures, though. I guess I’m just a big wuss. So far he’s kept the peace nicely, so I’m letting him stay. There was a brief moment of panic where I was like, “I hope this doesn’t get construed as a false idol,” but then I figured that nobody is going to confuse cardboard presidents for false idols any time soon.
In other news, Chris’s departmental Christmas party was last night, and I got to make a dessert for the potluck (with Chris being my Doctor Sous). I went with a four layer chocolate cake, filled and covered with cinnamon toast flavored buttercream (I swear to God, it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted, frosting wise), and festooned with a melted-vanilla-tootsie-roll snowman and Ghirardelli milk chocolate chips. The chips also made a trail to our gingerbread shanty.
How come gingerbread houses are so damned difficult to construct?!? It shouldn’t be THAT hard. And they get so hard and unpalatable. Eh. It was cute. I also like to think that the snowman will keep out any probing city coding officials, who would immediately condemn our shanty if they got close enough to see how it was constructed (or the elves, brewing peppermint meth in the little gingerbread bathtub).