Pop Culture Puns and Trees by the Ton

Print: Michaels

A cactus is a kind of tree, especially when it's dressed up for Christmas.  Even if it doesn't grow in New Jersey save for in print form on my wall.  Who knows.  If I saw real cacti every day, then maybe I wouldn't like them as much.  Luckily, I'm rooted in the Garden State, which means I'll never need to find out.

Cacti do grow in Idaho, which just happens to be the setting of the last book I read, Codi Hall's There's Something About Merry.  The sequel to Nick and Noel's Christmas Playlist (which I read last year), it centers around the Winters Christmas Tree Farm and the festively-named family that owns it.  Middle child Merry loves the farm so much that she wants to run it someday.  So she's bummed when her dad hires someone else to do just that.  Clark Griffin (who, although not a Winters, isn't immune to the "merry" moniker theme; his favorite holiday flick is Christmas Vacation) is no longer the lanky, long-haired nerd that popular Merry crushed on back in high school.  Now a single dad, he's assertive but still reticent, his quiet nature masking a wound.  Yet when he and Merry connect on a dating app, their chemistry is palpable.  As a writer and an introvert, I love an epistolary getting-to-know-you, and this one is especially sweet.  But perhaps the best thing about it is that it doesn't go on forever.  Merry and Clark discover each other's identities early.  So instead of being the entire story, the online dating trope serves as more of a prologue, building tension and layers.  Because who says romcoms can't be deep?

Not this fool for love.  And cacti. 💖🌵

Light Plight Turned Delight: Christmas is Coming

It's no secret that I get overwhelmed by Christmas decorating.  Because unless you want to hang your garland along with a year's worth of spider webs, first you have to clean.  And if you're anything like me, then once you start, you realize just how disgusting your house is.  It's a real if-you-give-a-mouse-a-Christmas-cookie situation.  Nevertheless, yesterday I started decking out the fireplace, then moved on to the tree only to discover that my (albeit ancient, slightly leaning, floor model) pre-lit specimen needed a little more hot buttered rum (hashtag drinking-puns-from-a-teetotaler).  Good thing I already stocked up on lights:  

Lights: Sylvania, Hobby Lobby

Then again, I bought these to replace the extra strands that I add (I like a lot of lights), which had also died.  Sigh. 

Yet despite my borderline bah humbug attitude, I don't hate Christmas.  Oh, no.  I love Christmas.  And so I want it to be special and can never do it (or anything else I care about) halfway.  Is it any wonder that one year I got so stressed out I didn't put up a tree at all?!

When the husband got home from work, I told him about our low-wattage situation.  And he said, "Did you plug everything in?"

Um, what?  Wasn't there just the one plug?

Evidently not, because in a blink we had this:

Which just goes to show that things are never as bad -- or as dim -- as they seem.  Also that, like a toddler, I shouldn't be trusted with outlets.  

Anyhoo, time to bust out the ornaments!  The newest are these cacti and French fries, just a few of my favorite things. 🌵🍟

Ornaments: Wondershop, Target

So, here's to merry mishaps that melt into, not springs, but succulent surprises.  

And to jacking up the electric bill Griswald style.  

Christmas Lights, Camera, Action

"This is not my beautiful house, this is not my beautiful wife" isn't just a lyric from a Talking Heads song.  It's what's going on in this picture.  (Well, okay, except for the wife part.)  This lights lollapalooza of a house isn't mine.  But it was the most striking house I saw with the husband and my parents when we drove around looking at Christmas décor over the weekend.  (My mom found it on a Facebook self-guided tour list, so hopefully the very talented homeowners won't mind that I posted a pic.)  It's as dazzling as the Griswald residence.  Only better, because it has a castle.  

Speaking of Christmas Vacation, there's nothing that eases 'tis the season tension like a crazy Christmas comedy.  So when I saw a commercial for the Comedy Central original movie A Clusterfunke Christmas, I had to check it out.  Written by Rachel Dratch and Ana Gasteyer, it's a rom com spoof of those so-bad-they're-good Hallmark holiday features.  Holly Jenkins (Mr. Mayor's Vella Lovell) isn't looking for love when she descends upon a Christmas-themed village.  She's looking to buy a heap of an inn run by eccentric spinster sisters Hildy (Gasteyer) and Marga (Dratch) Clusterfunke.  What follows is a walking, talking Christmas card complete with all the, ahem, hallmarks of a made-for-TV-movie.  You know.  The struggling mom and pop (or should I say sister and sister?) business.  The cookie cutter townspeople.  And, of course, the sophisticated, stressed-out businesswoman and hunky local yokel (Call Me Kat's Cheyenne Jackson) who despise each other on sight but must-have-each-other-now although they barely lock lips.

It was fun to watch a Christmas movie that put a new (i.e. snarky) spin on things.  Not that I don't enjoy the odd Hallmark flick while I'm crafting or wrapping a last-minute gift.  But after stringing my third necklace, I sometimes find the stories too saccharine to keep my interest.  No spurned suitor ever even so much as tosses a mug of hot chocolate in his lady love's Botoxed face.  And that's just not normal.  

Nevertheless, even as A Clusterfunke Christmas satirizes the genre of holiday romance, it's an (albeit tongue in cheek) homage to it.  Which is to say that it takes the best parts of a merry meet cute and then -- bam! -- spikes that sugary eggnog.  Because a little sarcasm never hurt anyone.

And you always hurt the ones you love.

All's a Riot on the Western Front . . .

. . . is a phrase that describes your average home on Thanksgiving.  Near-explosive Crock-Pots, feuding relatives, loser football teams, and rotting gourds (hey, it's happened) can conspire to create an atmosphere that's more Griswalds than Waltons.

That's why there's pie.

And for me, cowboy boots.  Something about this rustic, homespun footwear just says harvest.  So here I am wearing my favorite pair to do my prairie proud.  What's more, I upped the ante with these leather-look-but-felt barrettes, then threw in a faux cameo brooch for good measure.

 Tan Folksy Fringe Barrette

Clara Cameo Brooch 

Black Folksy Fringe Barrette

If the barrettes represent the Native Americans, then the brooch is pure Puritan.  I know, I know; those vanguards of vanilla wouldn't be caught dead in something so gaudy.  But I couldn't very well make a buckle, and it is the kind of trinket that would be at home on the ruffly blouses of the Aldens' tea-sipping successors.  So, barrettes and brooches, battling it out . . .  No, that's wrong, too.  No violence here, just a joining of styles and peoples over a spread of mouthwatering carbs and one big, tasteless turkey.

It's all about the sides, my friends.  You can't spell gluttony without gluten.  Or either of them -- or Griswalds -- without a "g."

Which is important.  Because the Griswalds are more fun than the Waltons.

Merry Christmas: On Pins and Pine Needles

 Fabulous Felt Christmas Wreath Brooch

Dress: Modcloth

Top: Kohl's

Shoes: Ami Clubwear

Bag: Macy's

Belt: Apt. 9, Kohl's

 Fabulous Felt Christmas Candle Brooch

Top: Liz Claiborne, Marshalls

Skirt: Boscov's

Shoes: Ami Clubwear

Bag: Macy's

Belt: Kohl's

Fabulous Felt Christmas Tree Brooch

Sweater: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Skirt: Marilyn Monroe, Macy's

Shoes: Ami Clubwear

Bag: Macy's 

Such excitement!  Such anticipation!  Such . . . frustration!  You know, if you're dealing with unwanted baked goods and/or relatives . . . bonus points if Aunt Shirley shows up with a fruitcake.  Yes, it's Christmas again, that extravaganza of unfettered festivity and unbridled emotion.  So, what better way to herald its arrival than with holiday pins, or, in fancy, British tearoom speak, brooches?  Their bright, cheery colors will distract you from any unpleasant situations as well as offer a conversational gambit when things get hairy.  If an overly inquisitive relative asks, "When are you going to get married/have a baby/get a job/move out of your parents' basement?", pretend you misheard her and say, "Where did I get this brooch?  Why, a charming little online shop called The Tote Trove . . "  

See what I did there?  

All kidding (and self promotion) aside, felt has never looked so sweetly old-fashioned as it has in this wreath, tree, and candle.  I can't help how I feel, and I feel I love felt.  It's no wonder, then, that of all the ornaments in all the stores, these three felt fruits (and one veggie) from Target were my favorites:
  

This health-conscious quartet blows cookies out of the water (or should I say eggnog?), making for an unexpectedly cruciferous Christmas.  Except for you, Mr. Mushy Banana.  Go hang with the cherry cordials and figgy pudding.

And now, for something a little more traditional and not at all healthy, here's a gingerbread house built by the husband:  

It's a replica of my parents', which is to say, the place I grew up.  The husband took great pains to reproduce every detail, right down to the lamppost, porch, and shrubbery.  A thing of architectural soundness and beauty, it's proof that men are better at construction, even of the graham cracker kind.  Or, at least this man is better at it than this woman, who stood by as he labored, idly munching marshmallows.    

And finally, if you've had your fill of run-of-the-mill Christmas music, then check out YouTube for The Killers' holiday highlights.  Delightfully disturbing and disturbingly delightful, the desert-themed "Don't Shoot Me Santa" and its follow up, "I Feel it in My Bones," will tickle your dark funny, well, bone, whereas "Joel the Lump of Coal" will make you smile -- and perhaps plot for a place on Santa's naughty list.

So, merry Christmas to all and to all a good night (can you tell I just watched Christmas Vacation?). Eat too much sugar, march to the beat of your own little drummer boy, and, above all else, regift any memberships to the jelly of the month club.  Unless, of course, jelly is part of your plan to eat too much sugar.  In that case, down a jar of orange marmalade for me.