It is almost Thanksgiving, which means tables of food and family. Giving thanks and counting your blessings. Right after you unbutton your pants at the table (or for the ladies, wear stretchy yoga pants or jeggings), be prepared to turn your attention to …the Christmas tree.
The annual buying of the Christmas tree is a tradition that many people embrace. Other, saner people, just go with the fake tree and throw it up, and Viola! Done
The crazy people, like myself, have to go in search of “the Perfect Tree.” The “Perfect Tree” doesn’t exist, but every year the insanity commences.
This is what our search for the “Perfect Tree” looks like:
First, I scout out the lot where there is a good selection. My husband and I excitedly hop into the truck to go to the lot to make our purchase… only to get back in the truck because the lot isn’t open. I have learned that lot hours are guidelines.
When we finally get to the open tree lot, I am excited. There are plenty to choose from and they are all standing at attention in all their glory. We enter the lot, and my husband says, “What about this one?” I look at him like he has three heads. We couldn’t possibly take the first one we see. I keep moving to start the intense selection process, similar in scrutiny to when your daughter brings home a boyfriend.
What we find are trees that are too tall, too short, too wide, too skinny, bald spots, looks dry, don’t like the needles, smells too piney and so on. We wander around for awhile and my husband keeps saying, “What about this one? How about that one?” He looks defeated and wants to be anywhere but here. (I’m thinking that a beer garden at the tree lot is a brilliant idea.) We finally settle on one and it has a purple tag. I track down a tree lot worker and say,” I’d like to get this one. How much is it?” He says, “Sorry, Ma’am, the purple tag means its already sold.” Right now, I’d like to put him through the tree shaker.
I am tired and cranky now. I do not want to go to another lot. Not to be defeated, I turn and pull a flask from my purse. No, wait. That is what I want to do. What I actually do is ask if they have any 10 foot trees? The guy asks me if I want a Frasier Fir, Noble Fir, White Spruce, or White Pine? At this point I want a tree with needles. That is not a lot to ask.
We finally pick out our tree. I am happy. My husband is happy. (I’m realizing that he probably did bring a flask.) We get our tree, put it in the back of the truck and head home. Mission accomplished.
That is…. until we have to pull out the tree from the truck, get sap all over everything, yell at each other each step up the front porch and continuing on until the tree is in the stand. Finally, we succeed in getting our perfect tree in the stand. We aren’t speaking now, but we have the “Perfect Tree.”