Twas the month before Christmas and all through the house
The tree decorated, no fight from the spouse.
Each year we argue with all of our might
About bangles and ornaments–those god-blasted lights.
“The red bows are cluttered, they can’t all go there!”
I put more on that branch ’cause I really don’t care.
My e-friends are rushing to Instagram trees.
Martha Stewart approved them but won’t approve me.
Pasta noodles and glitter all over our balls.
Looks more like bad art class and less “Deck the Halls.”
On clutter!
On tangle!
On excess of bows.
On tinsel!
On paper!
On all of it goes.
To the top of the tree! All over the wall!
Up high, and up low, every room every hall.
The boxes are empty but for one broken elf
Mismatched decorations all over the shelf.
The angel won’t fit on the top of the tree
So she sits by the door so the mailman can see.
As I fill the wood stove with a new crisp dry log
And I plop on the couch after moving my dog,
I wish you a season filled with love and good ale.
And clever fun e-cards–we’re too lazy to mail.
Go Overstock, Zappos, cyber sales but remember–
Happy Amazoning to all, and a Merry December!
[This post is dedicated to the memory of the real tree we had every year and the string of tangled lights, tested and swear-approved by Dad. Here’s an old post-trip down ornament memory lane, “Ode to Fake Trees: Avoiding the Chainsaw Massacre” and I’d be negligent if I avoided the story of my Dad and the Christmas tree, “Putting up the $#%$ Tree: A Holiday Tradition of Love.” ]
