The more adult things I do, the more I realize again and again: my parents did so much for my sisters and me. I'm reminded of it every time I contemplate generating a non-microwaveable meal. But, it's more than just cooking, cleaning, bill-paying, and doctor-appointment scheduling that they did for us.
We also had something else every single year of my life: Real Christmas Trees. Just thinking of all the work that went into it makes me want to convert to Judaism. 24 real Christmas trees in 24 years. If my mom wasn't winning the lifetime best mom award before this fact was proclaimed, she's now a shoo-in.
My roommate got our tree this year - she and her boyfriend set it up = no work for me!
|looks like a mess-free holiday to me!|
Then, since we're really on top of things, on January 6th we decided to take it down and I wanted to help since I didn't help set it up. You know, un-trim it, drag it out of our apartment and down three flights of stairs to the dumpster.
I know, I know, the dumpster is totally not the right place to put a dead Christmas tree. But you know what, I'm a rule-follower but not a "dispose of my Christmas tree properly" rule-follower.
I climb the stairs back to my apartment and realize: it's like the Christmas tree hadn't really left! To say there were PINE NEEDLES EVERYWHERE is the understatement of the year.
|our tree in our apt|
There were pine needles in crevices that I didn't know existed. There were pine needles in pine needles in crevices in crevices. It was like inception, but instead of staring at Leonardo DiCaprio you're staring at the messiest carpet imaginable. It reminded me of the time flour conquered my kitchen, except painful to step on.
Do you know how bad pine needles hurt when you step on them at the wrong angle? I'm talking stepping-on-a-LEGO pain.
I know what you're going to say: why didn't you vacuum them? Well, aren't you just a professional adult with all the answers.
Trust me. I tried. And then it broke/clogged my vacuum to the point where my vacuum was actually vomiting pine needles onto the carpet. Anti-vacuuming, if you will. So then I'd hand-pick up needles, try vacuuming again, clog my vacuum again. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Handpick, handpick, handpick. Needle after needle after needle. My roommate was helping, too. As was another friend who happened to drop by at a time that was incredibly unfortunate for her hands.
|favorite ornament at home|
Let me be clear: I have a top-of-the-line vacuum. If a robber came into our apartment, they would go straight for my vacuum. Then probably my yoga pants.
Yep, my yoga pant collection and my vacuum are more expensive than anything else I own. Probably except for my laptop. But my laptop is up for grabs! Does anyone want it? It gets 4,000 work emails a day and has a collection of terribly boring documentation that makes reading Beowulf in Old English seem rivoting. I've done that before. In case there was any doubt in your mind: IT REALLY SUCKS. Actually come to think of it, does anyone have an extra pair of lulu lemon 10 tall yoga pants they want to trade for my laptop?
My boyfriend recently asked me "How many pairs of yoga pants do you need?" which is similar to saying "How much oxygen do you need?" or "How many episodes of Downton Abbey do you need to watch today?"
Back to the Christmas tree clean up fiasco: hours (and days) later, our carpet is no longer a minefield of dead needles. It is clear of all evidence that any evergreen ever spontaneously exploded in our living room.
And I am clear of any and all desire to ever again purchase a real Christmas tree. Never again. In the words of a quite profound T-Swift: "Never ever ever."