Only 195 days to Christmas, 2019, tra-la-la! Ohhh, the horror! Perhaps we should leave town ... I hear Borneo is pleasant in December. Last Christmas is etched so deeply on my memory that it has left a scar.
Christmas, 2018, was when I took it upon myself to drag our tallest artificial tree from the garage into the living room - something I’ve never done before and will never do again.
Christmas, 2018, was when I took it upon myself to drag our tallest artificial tree from the garage into the living room - something I’ve never done before and will never do again.
The tallest tree is 3 ft. taller than I am, and I could barely lift it. Still, I managed to pick it up. Staggering blindly into the living room, I tripped.
Without warning, the tree’s bottom segment separated from the rest like a booster rocket, tumbling and twirling away as the tree’s top two segments flew straight at the cuckoo clock, ripping off its roof and silencing the two nodding birds’ moronic “CUCK-KOO! CUCK-KOO!” sung above their open-mouthed babies’ perpetual begging.
Unable to see a damned thing, careening wildly, I felt the tree’s second segment separate seconds before it rammed the naked babies’ open beaks. The stupid little Junge und Mädchen who pop in and out their stupid little doorway to dance their stupid little dance froze, probably in shock.
Himself personally selected that very clock after spending about 100 hours in some stupid little clock shop in the Black Forest about 1,000 years ago. He paid to have it shipped home from Germany. He winds it. He cleans it. He loves it.
He’d been in another part of the house when I tripped. He hadn’t heard a thing. I thought I’d break the news gradually.
“Himself …” I said, twiddling the curls on his semi-bald head, “How much do you love me?”
I may as well have said: “How well do you know me?” because his immediate response was: “WHAT DID YOU BREAK???”
“Um …” I said.
“MY CLOCK! MY CLOCK! MY CLOCK!” he screamed, running into the living room.
“Um …” I said again, secretly thinking: “If you're going to divorce me, I want the car.”
One hour later, he’d glued and clamped the clock.
Although Himself looked very red in the face, the clock looked as it always had: The parent birds fed the baby birds, the stupid little Junge und Mädchen entered and exited their stupid little doorway to dance their stupid little dance. The tree? Even though it’s now only 2-3/4 ft. taller than I am, it - and its booster rockets - survived.
The best part? Himself still loves me and we’ll continue to share the car. Merry Christmas. In 195 days.
