After several years of living on a shoestring budget, I decided that I was going to create a fabulous Christmassy mood in my home this year. I mean, even the mice are getting tired of the popcorn strung on my tree and our stockings have wear holes because we use them for extra socks throughout the year.
This Christmas would be different. This year I’d buy real presents and not just re-gift my mother’s work cast-offs, I’d buy a new tree, and even splurge on pretty wrapping paper. I was so excited. My husband would surely be impressed and my children would dream of sugar-plums dancing in their heads.
My husband has vehemently hated our tree for several years. He’s deemed it worse, much worse, than Charlie Brown’s pathetic twig. He calls it a dollar store knock-off of a folk art nightmare. Ok, so you can see bark (the cheesy paper mache kind) through the sparse branches, but I never hated it.
I simply don’t like the fact that the tree is skinnier than I am. When I stand in front of a tree for a Christmas picture, I definitely want the tree to be wider than my behind.