Oh, Christmas Tree...

For the first time since the year before we got hitched, we have our own tree!


I know, I know, the quality of the picture is crap. I'm too lazy to do more than a camera phone shot. And, yes, we still have to get a topper. And, yes again, we need to hunt through the storage locker for the skirt. And -- enough already! -- we still have to put the presents at the bottom.

In any case, here's the deal: he's a faker. In all my life, I've only ever had real trees. I grew up in the country, where nobody had fake trees except on TV. We cut our tree out of our massive forest of a backyard. It was endless fun, traipsing through the snowy woods, hats and mitts and snowsuits and bright eyes. As we got older, we stopped the woodland hunt and started buying them from the grocery store. There is nothing better than the smell of a freshly cut tree in your house.

So why the fakey? Well, I was dead set on the real deal 'til I started to think about cleaning up after him in my little condo. This guy is every bit as pretty as his less artifical brethren, and saves me from buying a vacuum for just a little longer.