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Every year, it has been a tradition for me to drag Matt to the nearest Christmas tree lot the day after Thanksgiving, examine every tree in minute detail, and, after a long and involved consultation, decide on the second tree we looked at. (This is nearly exactly how we decided on my engagment ring, too, except we went to at least three cities before settling on a local jeweler.) We then pay a nice man a lot of money in order to bring the tree home, whereupon I spend the next few hours decorating it and Matt helps himself to an extra dose of Christmas cheer down in his Mattcave.
This year my in-laws were here for Thanksgiving and we attempted to involve them in the annual Christmas tree/torture-Matt ritual, but alas, both Christmas tree lots we frequent were entirely devoid of trees, so it wasn’t until today, after his parents had left, that Matt and I warmed up the truck and tried again. It’s been snowing continually and we have six or eight inches on the ground, so we bundled up in hats, vests, gloves, coats, and scarves. Except anything I wear these days is, well, a bit restrictive.
Now, I won’t bore you with the part where Matt graciously drives us to the lot, parks on a nice flat spot, and we get out and tramp around in snow looking for the perfect tree, twice, or the part where we decided on a tiny tree for this year (it’s like two feet tall and cost less than $12); no, we did all that and paid, and agreed to meet at the truck. Matt tramped down toward where the tree was having its trunk freshly sawn and I headed to the truck.
I got there first. It’s snowing, mind you, and the truck was quite cold again, so I decided to start it to warm up. Toyota pickups have a clutch-start button to the left of the steering wheel; all you have to do is insert the key in the ignition, push the button, and you can start the car. No getting inside and pressing the real clutch required. And for smarter people, that probably works really well.
That’s what I did. Only I didn’t do a very thorough job of checking to see that the car was in neutral, because, I mean, who the hell parks on a flat spot and leaves the car in gear? That’s only for parking on an incline, right? Yeah, no. Matt does that. So while he’s hauling our miniscule tree up from the lot, I was trying to stop a suddenly moving 150-horsepower truck in four-wheel drive — one I was not inside of — with my fingernails. In the snow. In tight, restrictive clothing. With a rather large belly and visions of tripping and falling and being run over by my own driverless truck, which the U-B would inevitably headline “Area woman guilty in self hit-and-run.”
I tried to simultaneously get inside, knock the gearshift out with one hand and pull the emergency brake with the other, which involved getting one leg up in the truck, hopping along on the other leg, and using my belly as a ballast to stay precariously balanced half inside the cab, with my sizeable pregnant ass and left leg flailing out in the 3 mph headwind. In the meantime, the truck was lumbering toward an innocently though inexplicably parked driftboat on a trailer directly in front of me, and true to my upbringing, all I could think about was how, if we hit it, I was going to ruin someone’s steelhead fishing trip. And explaining exactly how I’d managed to drive into a parked boat didn’t seem like it was going to be done without great embarrassment, not to mention expense, so I was not keen on this idea. But try as I did, I couldn’t knock the gearshift out without pressing the clutch, and I had to abandon my attempts on the emergency brake in order to steer away from the boat.
Hours later, I managed to lever my body into the truck in a manner not unlike a teeter-totter and hit the brake, thus stopping a mighty twenty feet from where I’d started. Having done this, I burst into silent and mostly embarrassed tears as Matt came obliviously up the hill behind me, carrying our Christmas tree and whistling “Winter Wonderland.”
And now we’re home safely (Matt drove); he is recovering from my attempted suicide-by-stupidity for me with not so much egg as nog, and the tree is lit and decorated.
Happy Holidays, everyone. Be ye less stupid than me.
I’d never heard the saying that bad things come in threes until I met Matt, and I credit that prior ignorance to having had a pretty good life, all things considered. Since he told me about it, however, I can’t help seeing the pattern. Take this past two-week period, for example: bad things didn’t just come in threes; they poured in threes.
1. For starters, I was roused from my grading one afternoon by the rhythmic plinking coming from the guest bedroom, whereupon I discovered that the leak we thought we had fixed over the summer was not only not fixed, but had worsened. So much so that we shall have to replace drywall, which I’m looking forward to with fervor normally reserved for dentists and having my toenails yanked out. I stopped the immediate leak with a bucket in the attic (and discovered another, albeit much smaller leak) and, two trips to the roof and a couple caulk cans later, we now have no leaks.
2.1 and 2.2. The second that was going to be on this list was the toilet handle snapping off, but a quick trip to ACE Hardware for a $10 handle (not the stupid plastic one the house-flippers bought; I am never buying a flipped house again) and ten minutes with a crescent wrench and all is well there. So the second thing is the triangle of death that appeared on our Prius last week. The short story (the long story includes lots of instances of the word “fuck”) is that we’re looking at possibly having to replace the HV battery. Which is the big battery, the one that isn’t available at your local auto parts store. Eek. Needless to say, being able to fix your own roof and toilet is a lot more gratifying than looking at replacing a hybrid battery.
3. But I must say, the third bad thing is not so much something that happened to me (in fact, it is a couple years old) as it is something that has happened to our poor world. Internets, while I have been trying hard to refrain from further prostrating myself before the godlessness of politics (except Focus on the Family, which is very godly in its politicking), I CANNOT RESIST COMMENT ON CONSERVAPEDIA.
I mean, THANK THE GOOD BLOGS that there is a site where REAL AMERICANS can bring their biased opinions knowledge together and WAVE FLAGS OF TRUTH at the unwashed masses. And THANK THE GOOD BLOGS that sockpuppetry is dealt with expediently, that there are conservapedia commandments for the proper dissemenination of disinformation, that the “senseless changing of American to British spellings may result in blocking,” but mostly that there is finally an answer to the godless, anti-American, anti-Christian, and anti-right-winged bias of Wikipedia.
– But see, I wrote that entire paragraph mocking Conservapedia because when I first read it, I was sure it was a joke: sure that no one would really use the American flag in the logo like that (and such a bad font! was this made in MS Word?), sure that the “sockpuppetry” was a joke, sure that the “conservapedia commandments” were mocking the Bible, sure that the feminism article was written as satire — so sure that I joked about it on Facebook, whereupon proper fact-checkers assured me that no, it’s real, even if some of its articles have been somewhat vandalized (or “scandalized!”) by hippie-lefty-pinko-commies, those godless bastards.
Look, if conservatives want to have their own wiki, that’s fine, but let’s be honest — it looks like they’re taking their toys and going home because they can’t play in the big Wikipedia league. Yeah, no, I’m sure they have a good grip on reality. /sarcasm
Hostilities commenced just after dawn, when the Enemy Squirrel sent a scouting party* across the border** to pillage supplies**.
Little did the party know, however, that there was a gun trained on its every move.
Pow! Bang! Zing!
With the rapid action only a semiautomatic pistol can deliver, the Allies delivered rubber shock and awe. The scouting party was trapped!
Enemy Squirrel’s scouting party* retreated. But it soon returned with full reinforcements*, hellbent on biting apart the fabric of our society**.
Just when things were looking bleak for the Allies, they called in their secret weapon to patrol the borders:
All right, Squirrely. You tell ‘em I’M coming… and hell’s coming with me, you hear?… HELL’S COMING WITH ME!
[to be continued...]
*the damn squirrel himself
**the fence
Ever since we built a gate (did I mention that? Yeah, WE BUILT A FUCKING GATE AND NOTHING CAN STOP US NOW except for maybe the ridiculously hot weather), we’ve been awakened in the morning to the gentle gnawing of a squirrel outside our bedroom window. So yesterday, when a squirrel dropped dead in the middle of our lawn — plop! straight down from the oak tree’s boughs — I kind of hoped it was the gnawer and that he had died of a stomach full of indigestable cedar shavings. But no such luck: again this morning, the first thing I heard was the methodical sound of two incisors chomping away on the middle picket of the gate:
So, Internets, here’s what I done did: I grabbed my gun, removed the window’s screen, and leaned halfway out in my pink silk nightie and fired three shots at the damn thing. Yes I done did.
And you know what that damn squirrel done? NOTHING. He just sat there blinking at me with his goddamn beady eyes, then took another nibble. Fortunately, at that moment, Sgt. Trollop showed up and Mr. Squirrel decided it was time to mosey off into the lilacs.
Tomorrow morning, Squirrel Wars 2009 recommences. Mr. Squirrel, I have reloaded. Your fuzzy ass is mine.
Shopping list
Kusa dogwood x 3 for planting in front of house
Star magnolia
142 feet of fencing material
I fear I shall have to visit at least four nurseries and Home Depot today in order to do some price comparison. Aw, shucks.
Also, can I just complain for a minute about how ridiculous it is to pay an application fee ($25) and a permit fee (which isn’t listed) to put up a fence? Effing gov’t.
§ March 25th, 2009 § Filed under house § 1 Comment
Dear Neighbor Across the Alley,
Hi, we haven’t met, but I’m the neighbor who got to see your little show this morning. And while I’m sure that there are women in the world who would enjoy it, I’m not one of them.
You see, I was making coffee when a movement caught my eye. I looked up and saw you putting your adorable dog in your horrid back yard. By the way, you’d be welcome to borrow our lawnmower, and I’d be happy to kill some of your weeds that creep into my garden area. Really. And I’d be happy to water and prune your lilacs to create more of a visual shield between our houses. Again, really. But back to the subject: I watched your dog lumber into the yard and roll in the dirt, and I laughed at how he wiggled around trying to scratch his back. He’s a sweetie.
Unfortunately, as I lifted my eyes, I caught a glimpse of you as you disrobed and began to lotion your body in front of your sliding glass door. I am sorry that I was the beneficiary of this, as I’m sure you intended it for my husband (he is a hottie); alas, he goes to work SO THAT WE CAN BUILD A FENCE AND NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN.
Sincerely,
Chelfea
