Shit is FESTIVE

Brian and I went all, “Deck the Halls” this weekend, which typically consists of the following:

Taking Jericho (but not Milo, who shall henceforward be referred to as “Milo The Bedwetter” and no, I don’t really feel like talking about it) to go pick out a Christmas tree at probably the most expensive Christmas tree farm in a 50 mile radius. Unfortunately, it’s also the CLOSEST Christmas tree farm in a 50 mile radius, and with me, laziness usually wins out over cheap-skatedness (yes I make up my own words. I was going to say “inner Jew,” but I thought that would be offensive, so next time, try not to complain about the fact that I just used a nonsensical word, because it’s probably standing in place of a moderately offensive one. You’re welcome). And spending an hour picking out the nicest tree in the whole fucking place, only to realize that the tree has already been taken by another family (since when can you call dibs on trees? Next year, I’m claiming that bitch in OCTOBER), and the whole process starts over again. And then Jericho takes ANOTHER dump, because the last three dumps weren’t enough to clean him out, plus, the owner of the tree farm is right over there staring at us, so, awesome, and does anybody have a bag? Because you’d think that three plastic bags would cover you in the whole “cleaning up crap from a single dog,” department, but clearly we underestimated the tenacity of Jericho’s bowels.

Taking the tree home, dragging it into the house, and fiddling with it for half an hour while we try to get it absolutely straight in the stand, all the while screaming at the animals who are circling it like sharks and taking bets about who is going to knock it over first and yanking pine branches out of Milo’s locked jaws.

Watching Brian yell and curse while he meticulously places the 5,000 strands of lights that he deems necessary to give said tree the maximum amount of Christmas “cheer” (otherwise known as a $500 electricity bill and a “light pollution” fine from the township), typically with a beer in hand, and playing the “you missed a spot” game, which happens to be one of my most-favorite and Brian’s least-favorite games, at which point he gives me “the look” (like, if you point out ONE MORE AREA that needs extra lights, I’m going to pee in your shampoo bottle, hahahaha, I’m kidding, but seriously, shut your freaking pie-hole), at which point I mosey off to harvest my Farm-vizzle pumpkins because, after all, I know how to prioritize.

Going through our 18 boxes of hand-me-down Christmas decorations, with me desperately trying to throw out the ugly ones (from his side of the family, and the ones that his Ex had any sort of sentimental attachment to, natch), and him desperately trying to save them from the trash, because he’s a closet hoarder, and I’m not going to say that he likes ugly Christmas decorations, but let’s just say that one of the few benefits of being raised by a gay father is having extremely good taste when it comes to decorating, and I’m sorry, but I don’t do porcelain Santas with “fuzzy” beards, and Disney figurines? Are you freaking KIDDING ME?!?! Get that shit out of my house.

Cleaning up the puke from Milo ingesting and regurgitating 18 pounds of Christmas tree branches and needles, and then losing my mind after realizing that the single Christmas CD that we own has been playing on repeat for the past 6 hours and the songs are permanently burned into my brain.

Passing out, exhausted, with an appropriately festive house, a dog that has pine-needle gas, and a husband whose back will be now out of whack for the next two days thanks to all that time spent on the ground sawing and applying lights to a tree that is going to be thrown out in three weeks.

So yeah, that was our weekend.
It was magical, in a "National Lampoons" kinda way.

Up next? The Baking of the Christmas Cookie, which is guarenteed to be full of wonder and excitement...

...and generous use of our fire extinguisher.