If you have read The Fir Tree, you might understand how I come to be completely unable to have a real Christmas tree. The story is pretty fucking intense. If you don’t agree, you must have read some disneyfied version that skips the tree’s loneliness and agony. I’d include some illustrative excerpts, but I don’t want to drag you into my dark world.
Perhaps because this story was read to me at a tender age and my mother never allowed us to have a Christmas tree because it was cruel to kill trees, and perhaps because I happen to be overburdened with empathy for living things, a Christmas tree has never been possible for me. I understand that in principle it’s no different from picking a head of lettuce, but this is not about logic, it’s about emotion.
Anyway, Mr. Bunny and I are staying home this Christmas all by ourselves, and we’re working on generating our own traditions. After discussing my immobility on the question of real trees*, Mr. Bunny raised the possibility of a fake tree. I was ambivalent. I mean, fake plants? Yuck. But on the other hand, perhaps it would work. So we purchased Sidney (Mr. Bunny named him). We shelled out the big bucks for true needle technology. He’s a “baby napa redwood”. (Sure he is, people at fake trees dot com.) We decorated him yesterday, and while I miss the piney smell and the magic of having a tree in your house (a TREE! in your HOUSE! I’ve experienced it at other people’s places), Sidney is a total success in terms of simulating Christmasness. Mr. Bunny is thrilled. More to the point, I got to make the tree skirt pictured below, which features trim with those little jiggley balls. I LOVE THAT SHIT! I’d decorate my FACE with it if I could.
(Why yes, that ornament IS a potato.)
*If you’re like you should get a live tree, you must a) think I live on a farm where I can plant an endless succession of trees or b) want me to tell you some stories about the long-suffering live trees I’ve witnessed…weighed down by ornaments, clearly contemplating suicide… not for me, thanks.