As a promise made in the previous post. PS - thanks Kat for the title idea :)
Why didn’t anyone tell me
That women are like Christmas trees
Really only good when they’re all adorned
With round silicone curiosities
And cotton to cover up their prickly idiosyncrasies
And unruly oddities
That they inherited from consumer fables
While they stood obedient, silent
In the vacant corner of the local deli
Forced to observe, and knowing better
Than to yell when the back is already turned
So that the merchant,
Void of any guilt from the illegalities entailed,
Can approach the customer
Tilt his head in the direction of the object so pleasing to the eye
And say
“Yep, they only come in real or fake.”
Continue reading >>
Sunday, December 6
Saturday, December 5
On garlands and candy canes
I bought my first Christmas tree in Brooklyn, New York on a cold November afternoon.
That's not to say this is my first tree ever, simply the first that I picked out and purchased myself. I don't want to say "paid for" because I used the credit card linked to my mother's bank account, but that's another story. Point is - I hauled my ass to Brooklyn armed with gloves, a purse (into which I would end up stuffing the fake snow I stole from the Target display trees), and a really really big Bed, Bath, and Beyond bag to hide the illegalities entailed in my holiday mission.
Something was clearly off when I ended up with the disabled shopping cart. It was the only one I could find stranded on the second floor of Target, and God forbid I cross over to the other side of the store down the escalator and get myself a normal one. No: I found this little guy left for vultures in isle 6, surrounded by Christmas decorations galore. The moment I tried to move him, the right front wheel rolled but did not turn, whirling the cart to its right smack into the artificial candy canes. Hmm, I thought. Either this is nothing more than a disabled shopping cart, or some higher power is trying to tell me to buy those spiffy-looking candy canes. If you know me at all, I always go with the option that's more fun. What this meant was the next 40 minutes of me pushing and shoving and adjusting the wheel every few seconds and crashing into a lot of customers. They understood, though. Christmas brings out the mercantilist bit(ch) in all of us.
After I had my fun picking out the canes, ornaments, garlands, and a wreath, I kicked the cart's bad side into the isle with the trees. Only this was no isle - the entire back corner of the second floor looked like a forest out of Elf. I had never seen so many fake trees so close together at the same time; my little cart could barely maneuver past the plastic branches and the tangles of Christmas lights. It was beautiful, but it wasn't quite right - they were all too big or too skinny or too fake-looking. I realized you can say the same thing about women. Maybe I'll write a poem about how women are like Christmas trees in the 21st century.
And there it was. If I were in a cheesy movie where angels bellowed their "AAAAAH"s and the object in front of me was illuminated in mysterious light, this would be the scene. Just over four feet in a natural shade of green, it looked at me from a stand that was about as high as my dresser. I would put the tree on the dresser. The turn of events couldn't be more perfect if I had a normal cart or if having a Christmas tree in the dorms was legal. This was my baby, prelit and pre-packaged. Sixty dollars for something that will probably last for the duration of my college years? I didn't even think twice.
I asked the nice men in green hats and nametags where they sold the fake snow that was so neatly displayed among the branches, and they threw me a "we don't sell that here". How was I to have a tree without snow? The Russian in me didn't hesitate too long. The purse was small, but if I packed the rolls of snow like sardines, no one would suspect a thing. Besides, would they really care if I took one itty-bitty fraction of the blanket of cotton that covered the ugly tree stands?
After paying up at the cash register, I pondered on how I was going to get the five-foot long box past my dorm's security guard. It wouldn't have been bad if the box didn't say CHRISTMAS TREE and had photos of the goods plastered on all four sides. This is where the BedBath bag came in. I wrapped one half in the shitty wrapping they gave me in Target, left room for the handle, and covered the other side with the plastic bag on top of the shitty wrapping. I was buying a lamp, I swear. The handle cut the skin on my fingers; this is where the gloves came in. At least two men stopped me on the way from Target to the subway with "You need any help, honey?" No thanks, go molest the Victoria's Secret across the street. Brooklyn never fails to substantiate its stereotypes.
As I rolled along the Brooklyn Bridge in a lonely subway car, I considered why I'd go through all this trouble for a holiday which I don't even celebrate, during which I won't even be here. The tree and the candy canes and the colorful lights lift my mood like no other, sure. But what was it about Christmas that made me so incredibly happy for no apparent reason?
I want to say I don't know. I want to say I don't have any particular expectations that the holiday spirit will instill itself into everyone and make them nicer, more forgiving, more optimistic. I want to say that I'm not hoping the $200 worth of decorations in my room will somehow make magic happen and turn the implausible into reality. I want to say I don't wish things were different. But I can't lie to myself, now can I?
Continue reading >>
That's not to say this is my first tree ever, simply the first that I picked out and purchased myself. I don't want to say "paid for" because I used the credit card linked to my mother's bank account, but that's another story. Point is - I hauled my ass to Brooklyn armed with gloves, a purse (into which I would end up stuffing the fake snow I stole from the Target display trees), and a really really big Bed, Bath, and Beyond bag to hide the illegalities entailed in my holiday mission.
Something was clearly off when I ended up with the disabled shopping cart. It was the only one I could find stranded on the second floor of Target, and God forbid I cross over to the other side of the store down the escalator and get myself a normal one. No: I found this little guy left for vultures in isle 6, surrounded by Christmas decorations galore. The moment I tried to move him, the right front wheel rolled but did not turn, whirling the cart to its right smack into the artificial candy canes. Hmm, I thought. Either this is nothing more than a disabled shopping cart, or some higher power is trying to tell me to buy those spiffy-looking candy canes. If you know me at all, I always go with the option that's more fun. What this meant was the next 40 minutes of me pushing and shoving and adjusting the wheel every few seconds and crashing into a lot of customers. They understood, though. Christmas brings out the mercantilist bit(ch) in all of us.
After I had my fun picking out the canes, ornaments, garlands, and a wreath, I kicked the cart's bad side into the isle with the trees. Only this was no isle - the entire back corner of the second floor looked like a forest out of Elf. I had never seen so many fake trees so close together at the same time; my little cart could barely maneuver past the plastic branches and the tangles of Christmas lights. It was beautiful, but it wasn't quite right - they were all too big or too skinny or too fake-looking. I realized you can say the same thing about women. Maybe I'll write a poem about how women are like Christmas trees in the 21st century.
And there it was. If I were in a cheesy movie where angels bellowed their "AAAAAH"s and the object in front of me was illuminated in mysterious light, this would be the scene. Just over four feet in a natural shade of green, it looked at me from a stand that was about as high as my dresser. I would put the tree on the dresser. The turn of events couldn't be more perfect if I had a normal cart or if having a Christmas tree in the dorms was legal. This was my baby, prelit and pre-packaged. Sixty dollars for something that will probably last for the duration of my college years? I didn't even think twice.
I asked the nice men in green hats and nametags where they sold the fake snow that was so neatly displayed among the branches, and they threw me a "we don't sell that here". How was I to have a tree without snow? The Russian in me didn't hesitate too long. The purse was small, but if I packed the rolls of snow like sardines, no one would suspect a thing. Besides, would they really care if I took one itty-bitty fraction of the blanket of cotton that covered the ugly tree stands?
After paying up at the cash register, I pondered on how I was going to get the five-foot long box past my dorm's security guard. It wouldn't have been bad if the box didn't say CHRISTMAS TREE and had photos of the goods plastered on all four sides. This is where the BedBath bag came in. I wrapped one half in the shitty wrapping they gave me in Target, left room for the handle, and covered the other side with the plastic bag on top of the shitty wrapping. I was buying a lamp, I swear. The handle cut the skin on my fingers; this is where the gloves came in. At least two men stopped me on the way from Target to the subway with "You need any help, honey?" No thanks, go molest the Victoria's Secret across the street. Brooklyn never fails to substantiate its stereotypes.
As I rolled along the Brooklyn Bridge in a lonely subway car, I considered why I'd go through all this trouble for a holiday which I don't even celebrate, during which I won't even be here. The tree and the candy canes and the colorful lights lift my mood like no other, sure. But what was it about Christmas that made me so incredibly happy for no apparent reason?
I want to say I don't know. I want to say I don't have any particular expectations that the holiday spirit will instill itself into everyone and make them nicer, more forgiving, more optimistic. I want to say that I'm not hoping the $200 worth of decorations in my room will somehow make magic happen and turn the implausible into reality. I want to say I don't wish things were different. But I can't lie to myself, now can I?
Continue reading >>
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
