Monday, December 19, 2011

Christmas Slam

"Christmas slam!" My oldest son yelled. The boys both laughed until they saw my expression. Then they took off out the front door. I stared at the Christmas tree as if it were Kim Jong Il attacking Santa in North Korea, or like I stared at the tattoo around my arm that was supposed to be barbed-wire, but looks more like a string of fat, round Christmas lights. How could it do this to me? I spend $100 on a "Douglas Fir." I water it. Talk to it. The family carefully placed our memories on each branch with Amy Grant urging us on in the background. I spend hours detangling the stupid lights, breaking a few bulbs in the process. And it falls over. The Monday before Christmas. 

It crushed my new universal remote, and soaked the Android Tablet in the thin green box. Not to mention that it scratched my left cornea on the way down, which I'm sure will leave me with a nice New Year's eye care bill. I got out one of my Swiss Army knives to open the box with the blue angel paper to see if it destroyed my wife's hand-held exfoliator... the only thing she asked for this year. Thankfully, a survivor! The workout DVDs with resistance band were fine. The paper just needed some more tape and a little patchwork. 

When she gets back from her haircut and partial highlight, I've got some explaining to do. I could tell her it fell on its own, but that doesn't happen. We don't play football in the house. That's rule #1. We weren't. We were playing basketball in the house. I leap over the ottoman like Baron Davis and make the catch, only to be fouled by the tree. It really wasn't my fault. It was a bad pass. I could blame my son. But, then, who said it was okay to play a little hoops in the den? 

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