We put up a Christmas tree this weekend. IN OUR APARTMENT.
Probably the best thing ever, that Christmas tree. Other than the dire need to be able to run around in my underwear at moment's notice, the only other real reason I needed an apartment so badly was so I could have my Christmas tree.
If it were up to me, which it is not, by the way, I would have Christmas every day. There would be a Christmas tree in my living room all year. Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You" would never get old, which is doesn't. And Christmas cookies would be a staple dessert in my kitchen.
Christmas is sort of like Prozac, personified. It makes everything happy. All the time. Or that could just be me. I love looking at Christmas trees. And Christmas lights. And listening to Christmas music, which Jeremy has programmed on his car stereo, thankyouverymuch.
I would go as far as to say December is the best month of the year. But then I'd quickly take it back because I don't really like snow that much. I mean, it's pretty. But it's cold. And wet. And gets ugly when it melts. And laying on the beach in July totally trumps any and all need for holiday cheer.
So there's that.
Oh, and, we're exactly one week away from Christmas Eve, and I have accomplished exactly zero Christmas shopping. And that kind of puts a damper on my desire to spread Christmas cheer.
But I have a TREE. And it's PRETTY. So doesn't that just make you feel smooshy inside? OK, good. Consider that my present to you.