Dear Bastard Santa on top of my tree,
I’ve got you. I’ve FINALLY got you. Today your fat head toppled your white body and you fell within inches of my son’s golden mop. In my mind, that makes you a safety hazard. You, my friend, must go.
Yes, I know. We have a long history together. I bought you thinking you would look great on my white and gold decorated tree. Back when I could put things like glass balls and bows and only white lights on my perfect, fragrant, pine.
Of course, my husband, being the man he is, thought you deserved to be adorned with the Marshall football helmet a friend kindly gave him as a gift. Since that fateful day when your white hair was covered in HELMET…I’ve hated you. I’ve hated you ruining my Martha aspirations. Not that I could ever really be that coordinated…but dammit, it was my first house and my first married Christmas and I was going to try. And fail. But TRY none the less.
Despite my disdain, you became a tradition. And you’ve been on top of every tree, every year, since that horrific, pretty-killing Christmas. Yes Santa, you are a pretty-killer.
Traditions are something I know a lot about. I’ve forced my husband into many of mine. Like kielbasa on Christmas Eve and pie for breakfast. Orange juice for a New Year’s toast and lighting candles at local churches when our sky is falling. So I could never have knocked you off your tree top post. Not after year 2. Certainly not after 3. Or 4. Or 5. I have a certain respect for tradition. Even when they are asinine.
It was today, when you tipped ever so slightly to the left and then tumbled, helmet first, to the ground that I realized this may be my one and only chance to kick you off the main spot on my tannenbaum. I’ve already given up the glass ornaments and the white lights and the bows and ribbons and pretty, pretty things.
I now have a certified, 100% family tree. Hand made (and much loved) ornaments, colored lights to please the children, even the soft, hand-me-down stuffed ornaments my mother made when I was young and prone to breaking things. Add in the latest diagnosis of asthma in our house, and we now have a fake tree. Not even that new tree smell to greet me as I walk in the door.
So do I leave you up there, oh Bastard Santa? Or do you get replaced with some less top-heavy object??? Do I dare tempt an ill-fated, Christmas ER trip wherein I explain to the doctor how a helmeted Claus knocked my child unconscious?
The clock is ticking, Mr. Kringle.
I haven’t even put up the tree this year because last year Dawson tried to break every single glass bulb ornament I own.
This year I fear he’ll pull everything off the tree and break them all.
What do I do?
Am I using this as an excuse?
Probably.
Oh and! I forgot to send you and the Kaiser Happy Belated Birthday wishes.
Did you get to do anything fun on the days?
I never put anything on the top of my tree.
I opted for a bow for the top of my tree. Now I don’t have to worry about anyone getting knocked out when one of the kids makes the tree sway back and forth.
[silently rolling with laughter in computer chair, with tears sliding down cheeks]
When I was about 5, I cut a star shape out of cardboard (all lopsided and crazy-looking) then covered it with aluminum foil. To make sure it stayed covered, I used about a half-roll of Scotch tape (a tape technique my 5-year old seems to have picked-up). That beaut has graced the top of my parents’ tree for the last 38 years.
As long as it doesn’t get thrown Ninja-style, it’s pretty safe.
Oh, that poor Santa, saddled with helmet. He was probably commiting suicide because of the fashion disaster he’s become.
Are you trying to have a conversation with me without actually having a conversation with me? That Santa and that helmet are the reason I won the college football bowl pool that very first year he was on our tree. And the money from that win? It bought us our grill. How many tasty tasty meals have eaten that were prepared on said grill? 100? 200? 300??? (or as Jack would say, “A million?”) How many weekends have you not had to cook? How many new recipes have you enjoyed. Even your mom loves that grill. Oh, Santa’s stayin’ up there. And he’s wearing that fucking helmet.
You won that year because I was sitting in the correct couch spot for every game.
I think my husband just put his foot down. Did everyone see that???
my little girl surely thinks her mother has lost her ever loving mind since I’m laughing my ass over here with The Kaiser’s response. Oh. my. god. The fun times that are had in that house.
And he’s wearing that fucking helmet. I love it.
(though Santa did look like he needed a QEFTSG intervention there. I’m just saying)
Wow, I might have to side with the Kaiser on this one… a new grill, with someone else doing the cooking…I am not sure you can say no…
And I gotta say, given your love of football, I am so surprised that you are against the helmet. Having just seen the pic and not read the post, I would have guessed that YOU put the helmet on Santa!!
Admit it, you don’t really want to be Martha… do you?
my dog ate the lights off my tree. when they were plugged in.
i vote for taking the helmet off the santa and leaving him up there. compromise.
I will be blogging my own insane Christmas tradition. If you think the Marshall Helmeted Santa is bad……You’ll LOVE this.
I’m not sure we’re supposed to put Fuckin and Santa in the same piece of conversation.
Just a note to the Kais….I think you go straight to hell for that one. Oh well, we’re all probably going anyway.
If you get there first, save me a seat.
I’m not allowed to have anything nice.
Oh hey, I have stuffed ornaments from my childhood too. In fact DH and I argue about who the angel belongs to since both our moms made the same one.
Our fake tree sits here lightless w/ 1 Hello Kitty toy and 1 dinosaur toy and 1 beaded candycane made by a 5 year old.
I haven’t decided.
Saucy! That’s what you two are. hee hee hee!
Can’t! Stop! LAUGHING!!!
Santa the Impaler has a tree up his ass. Note the irony.