Oh, Hello again…Posted: January 1, 2014
I’m not going to reemerge with excuses, or pledges, or, god forbid, resolutions. Or double god forbid, pregnancy announcements. Instead, I’m just going to tell you about the Husband Hausfrau Christmas tree. “Wait!” You’re thinking, “I was pretty sure that the Hausfraus were Jews.” Allow me to refer you back to this post. “Wait!” you’re thinking, “Where the *hell* have you been?” The suburbs, mostly. The Cape and Vermont for vacations. Wisconsin and Florida and Connecticut for weddings. Target and book stores and toy stores (every time we leave the house, Das Big Boy informs us that he wants to go to a toy store) and Whole Foods and Trader Joes (in a seemingly interminable grocery store loop where I can never quite remember to buy everything we need so I wind up returning to the other grocery store to buy eggs the next day, but don’t buy spinach, so I have to go again the subsequent day to buy that and so on until I die.) “Wait!” say the six of you who aren’t my Facebook friends, “what do your kids look like now?”
Anyway, remember how last Christmas I was on bedrest and couldn’t do things like help pick out the Christmas tree? So this year, I was a bit of a holiday freak. No, I didn’t get my cards out on time, but that was the fault of Tiny Prints, who failed to send me sufficient specially sized envelopes. But I did insist we go and cut down our own tree. And not just any cut-your-own tree. An organic cut-your-own Christmas tree from Hopestill farm, which has been in the same family since the nineteenth century. We’re talking hardcore, aggressive crunchy-yuppie (cruppie?) tree. (But only $55! A veritable steal!).
It should be noted that in the past year, I’ve only become more of a disciple of A Green Slate. Such that La Gigi and Herr Husband make fun of me. And when I do something that’s not particularly toxin aware (removing old toenail polish in the car en route to a wedding, for example), they ask if Dr. G would approve. (Dr. G, I know you’re reading this. I promise: my kids were not in the car.) So anyway, I was feeling pretty awesome about the organic tree.
The thing is, if you’re going to get a super natural tree (not a supernatural tree, which would be even better and might enable you to chat with dead relatives or wrap your presents for you), it should look natural. After gleefully frolicking around the farm, we opted for an enormo fat bush. (Can’t wait to see what pervs that phrase turns up).
Said tree delighted us and all who came to visit throughout the holiday season. Das Big Boy actually helped decorate this year, and we enjoyed unearthing the ornaments he and Nanny Sunshine made last year. I did find the tree a bit stronger on the attack than a traditional tree. Full disclosure: I’m not sure how much fun DBB had decorating, because if you approached this tree wrong it went all stabby on your hand.
Then, on night two of the tree’s time in our home, Herr Husband and I were gazing upon it from our dining room. “It’s crooked again,” he noted. So we decided to fix it. We have a swivel straight (the second we’ve purchased since moving to the ‘burbs, but the old one would neither swivel nor straighten, so we bought a new one), but it’s not so easy to manage with huge fat tree, so we
were having some difficulties. At first I was under the tree manning the pedal, and HH was repositioning (the tree! geez!). But we were having no luck, so we switched jobs. And then the fully decorated tree fell over and nearly killed my husband. The children, oddly, seemed unfazed. But I suppose a tree with untouchable toys all over it in one’s living room is enough of a surprise that its falling over doesn’t really up the shock factor. Incredibly, only one (rather ugly, previously broken) ornament broke, and we stood the tree back up, finally getting it straight.
After that incident, the tree saw us happily through Christmas, affording photo ops like this:
A few days ago, Das Big Boy and I were in the living room getting ready to go out. He pointed to my leg. “And there’s a spider!” he said. I thought he was pretending (he has a very vivid imagination). Then I looked at my leg and screamed. Possibly offended, the bug sprang off my leg. “Actually, it’s a…grasshopper.” I carried it to the front porch, where it gets cold enough that our bouncy friend surely met his doom, and added, “Grasshoppers are lovely. Sorry, I shouldn’t have freaked like that.” I thought nothing more of it.
Later, Herr Husband squinted at the ceiling. “What is that?” he asked.
“Did that grasshopper get back inside somehow?” I looked closer. “Um, there are like a thousand baby grasshoppers in here*,” I pointed out. We dimly remembered removing a pod-like structure from Christmas tree while at the farm. Now we assume the eggs clung to the branches, started maturing when they hit our heat, and hatched after gestating appropriately. When we put the little critters outside they shrivel, so we’re letting them stay for now. That’s what happens when you go organic. Nature. But at least grasshoppers are better than bedbugs…
Also, the tree clearly protested being cut down in its prime. As we undecorated it, it shed just about every needle on our living room floor.
*More like eleven.
Happy New Year from the Husband Hausfraus and our new pets!