wooden In between a slew of Christmas parties that both my liver and my feet are recovering from, Stuart and I put up our Christmas tree yesterday, which, because we’re huge geeks, has been nicknamed Margo (get it) for three years now. We dragged her home in the sunshine, and set her up with minimal fuss. She’s a natural tree, no evenly-trimmed perfection for us, no sirree. Gimme the uneven, imperfect wholesome one every time. Where’s the Christmas spirit in a perfect tree? Half the fun is using ornaments to cleverly disguise the flaws! Of course, real trees are a novelty to me – we always had a fake one that traveled the world with us because unless I wanted to decorate a ficus in the tropical heat of sub-Saharan Africa, it was fake or nothing. I’m fine with fake; it’s easy as heck and there’s no pesky watering. But if you’re gonna go real, you might as well go all the way.
She’s in a new corner this year – instead of hanging near the window, she’s in the front of the living room. It means all that furniture there – the entry table and the lamp – have to find new homes for the season. See also: cluttered office!
It doesn’t matter, though, because nothing quite beats the feeling of seeing the lit and sparkling tree first thing in the morning, smelling that balsam fir smell. I like to think I’m not usually one for cliches but Christmas gets me every time. I smile more in public, I watch sappy (/-ier) movies, I get really excited about wrapping paper and getting the corners just so, I plan to bake various spice-smelling things. I’m kicking down the closet door in this age of hipster disenchantment, people. I love Christmas so much, I’m one step away from wearing bell earrings and a Rudolph necklace.
One BIG step, but still. Wheee tinsel!

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