I bought my first very own Christmas/holiday (don't want to discriminate) tree today. It was a six foot pre-lit cheapo from the brand spankin' new Big Lots on McNight Road. I would love to have gotten a real one, but the aforementioned has had serious adverse outcomes in the past... i.e. the last real tree I had was an epic failure and catastrophic disaster. I was probably eleven or so and it had to have been the post-Thanksgiving Saturday that we went tree hunting and chopping, because that was our traditional day. It was always damn cold and there was always way too much arguing, but
it was fun to search for the perfect tree while running around the fields like a Taliban marshmallow puff man due to the excessive scarfs and layering. I can fairly confidently contest that the perfect tree was never found and the my family settled for some lack-luster, mediocre tree after copious amounts of complaining. My mom had this really cute tree skirt with gold and glittery reindeer on it. Every morning, these little white specs covered the skirt, so every morning my mom shook it off. None of my family members ever really gave it much thought. Well, we probably should have because on that Christmas morning, as my sisters and I more or less teleported down the steps to see what Santa had brought us, we were attacked by a swarm of flying red ants. They were EVERYWHERE... all through the house, in the present wrapping, probably up my nose and the likes. The tree was the culprit. It had been the hub, the mother board, the main shelter supplier for nearly a month as the insects procreated, cultivated, and grew. The bastard was immediately removed from the house and we evacuated to the safety of my Mimi's. The moral of the story is... Happy birthday, Jesus. Happy birthday, infection of flying red ants. Ironic, aye?
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