I can now say that the Great Christmas Tree Debate is over. For this year.
When you’re coupled off the best part of having a relationship, other than the connubial rights is having someone to go with you to bring home a Christmas tree.
When a was a little fagglette, I dreamed that one day I would have a big hairy guy to drag the taped-up cardboard box from the basement and put our little tree together piece by piece. In our well appointed house with its name-brand appliances. Okay, I was that “type” of little gay boy. Sue me, as I grew older the only thing that changed is that hauling your tree up from the basement is not nearly as romantic as going out to the wilderness and chopping down a fresh, live tree. When I lived in Dallas, I drug Dalton through hours of Texas mud, to find just the right green symbol of Christ’s birth to axe murder. Oh, the smell...the smell. You could just smell the season in the air.
It came as a shock last week when the other half calmly stated,
“We should just buy a tree…yeah know… to have, then we don’t have go get one from a cold lot from a registered sex offender, just to have it die on us?”
Blasphemy!
And so started the great debate, real or fake plastic. Oh, the tears and the high pitched whining. The endless crying. Begging. The non-stop begging. It was just embarrassing.
Nothing worked on that man. But seeing as we have a healthy relationship we soon came to a compromise. Beautiful and real one year, gross, dumb, fake the next. See compromise.
Last Saturday, we walked out of the Uber store with one amazing 12 feet ready to assemble symbol of our harmonious life. We had to get 12 feet tall, because anything shorter would just be a cop-out. What? I’m a size queen. For trees that is.