I'm not a scrooge, I swear. It's just that I really don't care about a lot of the conventional structures and traditions of a materialistic consumer society. (I type as my gaze drifts to the cheesy wrapping paper strewn across the floor by my child in an effort to view her gifts in the best possible light of the gray morning.) That, and I'm lazy.
Being lazy isn't something that anyone likes to admit, but it's time that I own up. Of the five years I have lived here we had a real tree three of those Christmases. Our first Christmas here, Em's dad was still a bigger part of my life and he was here to haul the tree in, and then when it was all over, haul it back out to the curb when all was said and done. By the time our second Christmas rolled around, he wasn't here as much. So, the tree made it up and decorated about two days before Christmas. When February rolled around it was still set up. So I did what any sleep-deprived, single, impatient, lazy mother would do and moved it out onto the back porch. Where it stayed for another month until my dear friend Miles came to visit. Miles is like a house elf. You leave for work and when you get home the dishes are done, the stains in the carpet are gone, and so is the Christmas tree. As embarassing as still having a Christmas tree in March may have been, you would think I would have learned my lesson, right? Apparently not. The third Christmas, something very similar happened, except instead of Miles or some other blessed soul coming along to the rescue, I got a warning letter from the landlords saying something to the extent of: "Dear Tenant, while we understand people have busy lives it is utterly ridiculous that your tree is still on your back porch. It's March for cryin out loud, what the hell are you thinking? It's a fire hazard. Get your lazy ass out there and take care of it, chump. But don't put it in the dumpster or we will fine your ass. Happy Spring, and thank you for renting from us." What's a carless Mama to do? (Although I felt much better upon noticing that there were at least four other apartments in the same predicament as me...) I couldn't put it in the dumpster. Correction, I couldn't put it in MY dumpster. So naturally, after a beer or two too many, my friend and I, decked out in black, hauled it to the other apartment complex's dumpster in the middle of the night. I know, I know, how immature but it was fun. And really, how amused would you be to take your garbage out in late March and find a tree there? I would be thrilled. It's like a little reminder of all the holiday joy you shared with your family. Or-if your like me-a nice metaphor for the stress headache you accumulated during the holiday and how you need to let it go, trash it, dump it, just say bye-bye to it.
Last year I thought I was out-smarting my laziness and refusal to dispose of trees and I bought a cheap plastic one instead. First of all, it smelled like plastic, not that awesome pine smell. And it just looked stupid. But I was able to just fold it up and put it in my outdoor storage shed, and did so before the end of January, until the next year. That would be this year.
Now it is at this point I should remind anyone who may be reading that I have the worlds most successful mother when it comes to passing on paranoia and anxiety. My mother is totally convinced that there are mice in the storage units. And she very well could be right. She is also very sure that I will contract the deadly Hanta virus from these supposed creatures that may or may not be there. And she points this out every time the subject of that damn shed comes up. I usually do a pretty good impression of the disgusted teenage daughter with my eye roll and "yeah mom, got it."
This year, Emily and I are sipping hot cocoa, listening to christmas music, and excited to decorate. I pull the tree out of storage, carefully listening for the pitter patter of little rodent feet. I pull the tree inside, set it up and we decorate. Then my mothers paranoid voice pops into my head, yet again, with the anxiety stemming from the possibility of mice in the storage. Because naturally that would mean we are all going to die from the Hanta virus. I look over to the sliding glass door and see little specs on the carpet. Oh dear god, no. Mouse poop. Little turdlets that I can only assume have fallen out of the tree and are now on my carpet, not to mention the little Hanta germies all over my hands and clothes, and Emily. So I, being rational, flip the fuck out, throw the tree on the back porch, make Emily wash her hands, strip her clothes and shower off. I vaccum about five hundred times. Emily finds one more on the carpet, picks it up and says "I found one Momma!" Ack! Noooo! Red alert! Red alert! "Emily, put that down right now and go wash your hands again!" She ignores me and instead starts laughing hysterically at me. I am confused, I can't figure out why. She puts her hand on her hip, screws up her face into her best 17 and smarter than you expression and says "Mom! This is bark dust from the plant you tripped over on the way in with the tree! Gimme a break!"
Oh. Haha. I knew that.
Now, the day after Christmas, I yet again have a tree on my back porch. It's plastic and smells bad and is sitting in the exact spot it landed when I threw it out the door in my hanta-horror. I wonder how long it will be there this year...
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