The Grinch Gets Her Tree Up
There are two Grinches in this household, two Grinches out of two members* which makes the Christmas thing kinda hard. So, yesterday, I said to the other Grinch, it’s the 21st of December. I want our tree stuff OUT of the attic and IN the sitting room and I want it TODAY.
Peter was amused. Never mind. He got the stuff down from the attic.
And then I seem to have spent an unconscionable time last night writing the second part of my dissertation on JANE EYRE. With a little help from other people.
So I didn’t get to the tree till tonight.
tree. Ta da.
Yes, it’s fake. I’ve told you about the two-storey trees we used to have at the old house, which stood in the elbow of the stairs to the first floor. This is one of the things we gave up when we moved into two small houses. So, since we’d never liked killing trees–and I think because we had made a secret pact to become Grinches–the first year in town Peter went out and bought a fake tree. Peter puts it together every year–all the branches pull out for storage and have, therefore, to be jammed back in for use–so he’s allowed to have nasty, irritated, negative feelings about it. I think it’s great. It is a correctly shaped, somewhat furry green object that you can hang stuff on, it doesn’t prickle your hands to death, shed needles all over the house**, or make you feel horribly guilty for killing a live thing.
First stage. Wrapping the stem in sparkly.
several colours of sparkly
A fair amount of general house-decking will occur also; I’ve got swathes of the stuff. I’ve shown you our matched Mythopoeic Society lions, haven’t I? Probably last year at this time, when I did the same thing.*** Peter won the kiddie for THE ROPEMAKER and I won the adult for SUNSHINE.
Lions in bondage. Sparkly bondage.
The first ornaments to go up every year since I bought them: two reds and a white. Of course now I wish I’d bought more.
Yep. Rose. Of course.
WHERE ARE THE REST OF THE FRELLING HOOKS? ARRRRRRRRGH.
There are THREE MORE BOXES
Hooks. Relief. Although dumping them on the floor was a big mistake, since they don’t pick up against a slippery flat surface. More ARRRRRRRRRGH.#
These also move around of their own accord of course. You can tell that by looking at them. Never trust an S curve.
Decorated tree.
All over sparkly.
Every year since we moved into town we have the same conversation: Peter, I say, we’re missing some ornaments. In fact we’re missing a lot of ornaments. Blrrgh mmmbl grah, says Peter. Peter, I say, we had a two storey tree. Where are all those ornaments? It’s a mystery. It’s a mystery this year too. I’m still hoping they’ll turn up. It’ll be one of the things I mutter on my deathbed: I wonder where all those nice Christmas ornaments went. You know, the glass icicles and those William Morrisy gold things from the Met Museum, and is that a white light I see shining at the end of a long tunnel and people waving? And what about the really nice horse ornaments that Kathy gave us? Or the reindeer? Oh, all right, I’m coming, I’m coming.##
But there are enough to decorate both sides of a little tree at the same time.
I think it’s a nice touch, the top of the tree bent over with the weight of its angel. I feel a little like that myself–always supposing that that’s a good angel weighing down my shoulder. But I think it is. Good angels are so earnest.
Angel on a mission. Very earnest.
Happy Day After the Winter Solstice. Hey! The days are getting longer! If you had a minimicromeasureymonitor you could probably demonstrate it!
* * *
* The hellhounds don’t count in this case. They don’t buy people presents. They don’t agonise over buying people presents. They aren’t cruising the web at 3 am looking for that perfect t shirt they saw last July and IT’S GOTTA BE HERE SOMEWHERE. They say, is it chicken? If it’s not chicken, we’re not interested.^
^ Sometimes they aren’t interested even when it is chicken. I love this weather we’re having, you know? I love it so much. I love it even more for the fact that the hellhounds like to eat snow and then they get stomachaches and won’t eat. This enhances my pleasure in winter no end. Just . . . No. End.
** Christmas tree needles are, of course, self-motile. Don’t give me any nonsense about clinging to your jeans-hems and the bottoms of your house shoes. They move by themselves.
*** No imagination. It’s very sad.
# Remember metal hooks, she says wistfully? That you could stretch and pinch and so on? The plastic ones just lie there, or break.
##Actually I’m still hoping they’ll turn up when I FINALLY get Third House sorted. FINALLY.
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