November 20th, 2011
CHRISTMAS TREES, PEOPLE!
It is not even THANKSGIVING.
It is not even MY BIRTHDAY. (My birthday is in November, in case you didn’t know, and is treated as a national holiday in this house for the ENTIRE MONTH OF NOVEMBER. So feel free to send greetings, best wishes, presents and cash whenever you want.)
So we pass this, and the three of us – me, Punksin, and Pudding – look at it with disgust.
“I mean, really,” Punksin says,”when they start so early, you get sick of it by the time Christmas gets here. What’s the rush?”
My sentiments exactly.
And then this other little voice mutters from the backseat.
“I don’t want a Christmas tree this year.”
“What?” I exclaim. “What do you mean, you don’t want a Christmas tree?”
“Just what I said. I don’t want a Christmas tree this year,” he persists.
“Because…I just don’t.”
“But if we don’t have a Christmas tree, Santa won’t come!” Punksin exclaims. She knows this is bullshit. She knows there are some houses that cannot afford trees, or do not have room for trees, and yet Santa somehow finds his fat ass in there and drops presents. She is trying to convince her brother that we have to have a tree. Me, I want to know why he doesn’t want a tree.
“Well, there has to be a reason, sweetie. Why don’t you want a tree?” I ask.
“I just don’t.”
I hate when my kids say that. I am paranoid, and when my kids tell me shit like they just don’t as a reason, I start wondering what they’re hiding and who’s been molesting them and how can I find the fucker and kill them and how old will the kids be when I get out of jail and will I really have to be the girlfriend of some scary 6 ft thug bitch named Peaches while I’m in there.
It occurs to me, however, that it is highly unlikely that Pudding has been molested by a Christmas tree. Nor was he sent out with anyone besides his father to retrieve one. So what the hell is going on?
“Honey, ‘I just don’t’ isn’t really cutting it as an answer. There has to be a reason. Why don’t you want to get a Christmas tree? What is the REASON you don’t want a tree this year?”
He thinks about it, and then sighs.
“It’s just…too much work.”
TOO MUCH WORK.
IT IS TOO MUCH FUCKING WORK.
Let me EXPLAIN to you, what TOO MUCH WORK is.
His DAD went out last year, picked up an 8-FOOT TREE, paid for it out of HIS MONEY, got that sucker IN THE CAR and DROVE IT HOME. DRAGGED IT INTO THE HOUSE. GOT IT INTO THE TREE STAND, with MY help. UNTANGLED ALLLL THE FUCKING LIGHTS. DISCOVERED THAT NONE OF THEM WORKED. I hauled MY ass to the store and BOUGHT MORE. Drove home with lights. Re-enter the Tech Guru, who STRUNG THE LIGHTS ON THE TREE. He then WENT INTO THE ATTIC, took out ALL THE BOXES of ornaments and brought them down 2 flights of stairs. Punksin and I then DECORATED THE TREE. After ALLLLLLL this shit happened, the Tech Guru gives Pudding the Angel tree topper, PICKS UP PUDDING, and ASSISTS PUDDING WITH PLACING THE ANGEL ATOP THE TREE. This was pretty much the SUM TOTAL OF HIS, PUDDING’S, CONTRIBUTION.
We didn’t think we were asking for much at the time, given that he was THREE YEARS OLD.
But apparently, for PUDDING…this is all just TOO MUCH FUCKING WORK.
“We’re getting a tree this year, kiddo,” I said.
“But I don’t want one,” he whined.
“You don’t want it? Don’t look at it! But the rest of us? The ones who actually DID THE WORK? WE WANT A TREE.”
Wait til he gets a drivers license and a job. Then he’ll see how much work it is. I’ll be drinking egg nog and singing carols til I’m drunk while he does EVERYTHING. If he keeps it up, I’ll send him into the woods to CHOP ONE DOWN and he’ll have to walk it home 3 miles on a SLED.