This weekend we picked out our Christmas tree. We decided since it's our very first
real tree (last year we had a fake one), we should go all the way and cut it ourselves.
It was a perfect day! The sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a decent temperature for an excursion in the outdoors...that is, if picking out a tree were like picking out what flavor ice cream you want today. Which, to me, it isn't. I think we spent a good hour tromping around the farm trying to find the perfect one, so the nice cool weather quickly turned into a bitter cold and, because I wanted to look 'cute' for our first encounter with our new houseguest, I was wearing a skirt and a very non-warm coat.
After debating between four or five trees, we finally committed to an enormous, looming, nine-foot evergreen. It was scrumptious.
Todd was worried that the bungee cords we brought wouldn't hold the tree down. I told him not worry about it. We drove 30 MPH on the highway anyway.
I was right. Nothing happened to the tree.
Also on the agenda for this weekend was shrink wrapping the windows. Whoever conceived this idea is brilliant, our house is suddenly warmer, but really, it's quite possibly the most annoying, irritating chore ever...ever, ever. The double-sided tape never sticks to anything, except everything you don't want it to. And trying to cut those enormous sheets of plastic by yourself is impossible, your arms end up in all the wrong directions and your face squishes up like you just ate a lemon. It's annoying, and difficult. Toss a 9 month old puppy into the mix and you've got major issues.
Lena was driving me nuts. She was always under my feet, leaning up against me, and I just know she was thinking,
"Mom, why are you paying so much attention to this window and not me??"
One particularly difficult window to overcome required me steadying myself on a dining room chair. I teetered on the seat, stretching myself as far as I could reach...streeeetchhhhh, reachhhhh, go, you're almost there, GOTCHA!...finally got the damn thing to stick.
Just as I'm about to step off the chair, I notice Lena laying directly underneath my descending foot. I pull away to bypass crushing her, but I stumble and come crashing down. I managed to miss crushing her spine, but I miscalculated how close I was to the back of the chair. I was close, close indeed. So close that I now have a major bruise on my rump from landing so hard on the ornate backrest of our antique dining room chair.
Later that day I was on the computer, catching up on celebrity gossip. My clean laundry was waiting patiently in a basket nearby for me to fold and put away. Lena was being abnormally quiet. She was adapting well to the monstrosity of a Christmas tree in our living room. We put all of our shatter-proof ornaments near the bottom of the tree in case she got an appetite and tested the sparkling glassware for her supper. Lena didn't even pay attention to the tree, or the ornaments, or the lights. She did, however, think that the tree stand that held three quarts of water must have been a new watering hole. A buffet of drinks before her, she lapped up every ounce left in it. I replaced the water and scolded her.
(Lena, the Christmas Elf. Notice the orange in the heater, I reference that in a bit.)
At some point I noticed that my house smells like dog. Not just dog, but that smell that overcomes you when you open the door to the vet and it's as if someone slapped you across the face with canine slobber laced with half digested kibble and you get that tickling feeling in your nose that means stray hairs have lodged themselves in your nasal passages and you'll never be able to breath the same unless you're able to let out a good productive sneeze, but that doesn't help either because after you sneeze you just have to breath in deeper, and then it gets stuck in your throat and all you can think about is the nasty saliva that must be embedded in those dog hairs, so you gag, and then gag again, but nothing happens because you're unknowingly trying to prevent yourself from breathing in any more of the air surrounding you and then you pass out and die.
At least, that's what it reminded me of.
Which is why we haven't had company over for awhile.
Anyway. I tore myself away from the smut gossip website and started to think of ways I could freshen up my home and make it smell like Mrs. Claus resides here. I love the smell of oranges studded with cloves, so I made five of them. Our house is old and has these gorgeous heating registers that blow out a ton of air. I investigated one and thought it might be a neat idea to tie an orange on the inside of the register. That way, whenever the heat turns on, we'll get a huge gust of spiced orange wafting past our noses.
I needed Todd's help holding the grate. He looked at me like I was crazy, but agreed, something needed to be done with the foul aroma of our living quarters.
Before he allowed me to do this, however, he laid down some strict instructions about the care of our new furnace decor. I was to be very careful with the dangling orange and keep an eye on it every day. If it started to shrink, I needed to remove it pronto before it slipped out of it's green, festive noose so it wouldn't fall into the dark oblivion of the heater.
"Don't worry, I'm not a child, I'll keep an eye on it."
For a whole two hours I basked in the scent of spicy citrus, priding myself of what a cunning, cunning woman I was, fooling the furnace and canine smell.
And then, just like a cheap plug-in, the smell left.
It was at that moment that I realized Lena wasn't being abnormally quiet...she was being the kind of quiet that gets her into trouble. If she's not annoying us by whining or chewing at our slippers, she's most definitely got herself into something she shouldn't have. I looked down at my feet. Over at the laundry. And then over to where she lay. Six pairs of my most treasured underpants lay at her feet. Chewed beyond distinction. My most treasured, I mean the kind of underwear you can wear with anything. Wear on a long car ride because they're not uncomfortable, wear with a cute dress because they're not uncomfortable, and wear for a date because you're married and you don't need to wear uncomfortable underwear anymore, so, they're comfortable.
I lunged at her from my computer chair to try and get them away from her. But, unfortunately for me, the chair on wheels I so willingly put my trust in, slipped out from underneath me. In a short second I was on the floor, tears welling in my eyes, and grasping my arm and foot that took the major brunt of the fall. Oh, how I hurt. And still do. I have matching bruises, leg and arm, all from a four legged animal.
Because of this, I decided to relieve my stress and perk up the Christmas scent by adding the last few oranges I had decorated. I lifted the register off, tied two more oranges onto the grate, and set it back in it's place.
Thud.
Oh. Crap.
There it went. One of the oranges propelled itself down the long and dusty vent. Down and down and down into extinction.
If I hadn't gasped so loud, my husband would have never found out. But, I did. And just as I did, he rounded the corner saying,
"What."
That 'what' is something I dread hearing. It's the 'what' that makes my tummy skip up into my throat, fully knowing what I did wrong.
I was right about the tree being bungeed to the car, nothing would happen. But I was SO WRONG about the stupid oranges hanging loosely in the register.
He was mad, and rightly so.
Now, the orange sits, distressed and alone at the bottom of the heating shaft. Who knows what will happen. Will it just dry up and stay there forever? or will it attract rodents and monsters and ghosts? (it is an old house after all...)
One thing is certain, there is a moral to this entire post. It took me two bruises, a humbled ego, and several pairs of panties to realize...
More often than I care to admit, my husband is right.
and...
Never put all of your good underwear in one basket.
