Christmas Tree Part 2

Back to the Christmas tree issue. Sorry for the delay.
A week before Christmas I overheard my wife telling son Danny that maybe it would be best to just bring the artificial tree up from the basement. I was excited but knew that if I seemed over-eager to ruin everyone’s Christmas with the $250-plus tree we only used once, I would be sent out to get a real treet. I said nothing.

On Saturday morning I heard her say to Danny: “I’m going to have you guys bring the tree up from the basement and we can decorate it this afternoon.” Again I held back, fearing it might be some kind of trap to get met to try to spoil her Christmas.
Shortly after lunch, I heard her tell Danny: “Whenever you guys bring the tree up we can get started on decorating.”
“I’ll get it right now,” I told her calmly, although I was practically shaking on the inside.

Danny and I carried it up. She immediately pointed out that there was something wrong with the bottom branches and requested a hammer. My heart sank. Knowing that if even one branch was a fraction off she might opt for a real tree, I retrieved the hammer.
“Can I help?,” I asked.
“No, I’ll handle it,” she said.
The next few seconds seemed to linger forever. She banged something near the bottom of the tree real hard and then pulled roughly at the bottom branches. She seemed frustrated, a bad sign. But a few second later she stepped back, looked at the tree and handed me the hammer.
“The top lights aren’t on,” she pointed out.
A quick adjustment and they came on.
“I won’t be able to put my angel up,” she remarked, noting there was no space between the highest branch and the ceiling.
Based on past experiences, I said nothing in response.
She said nothing further and started to decorate.

Have a great Christmas. I hope you get everything you want. I already received my gift.

Should I join?:

A couple of months ago I noticed my wife was spending more time at the computer and assumed she was checking her e-mail more often. A few weeks later we were talking about a gathering of basketball parents. She seemed to know more than I did and that prompted me to ask how.
“I saw it on Facebook,” she said.
She had joined Facebook, making me the only holdout in the family.
I felt a little left out and for a few days was going to join but never did.
Here are some of the reasons. Maybe those of you who have joined can shed some light on whether my concerns are valid.

I don’t want to be contacted all at once by everyone I have known but don’t keep in touch with.

I especially don’t want to be contacted by everyone I went to high school with. Don’t get me wrong. I go to all my reunions and have fond memories of Guilford High. Every five years is enough for me and it keeps it exciting.

I don’t want people I work with to have access to my page and I don’t want them to feel like they should grant me access. We spend enough time together already.

I don’t think I have any cool recent photos of myself to post.

I don’t want to be involved in any silly contest to rack up friends. I could probably have thousands of friends within days.

My sons have already told me they will not be my Facebook friend. I haven’t asked my wife, but I suspect she feels the same way.

I’m selective when it comes to social events and I’m afraid Facebook will lead to all kinds of invitations that I will have to turn down.

I don't get drunk and do a lot of crazy things at parties anymore. Back when I did, we didn't take photos. Even at my craziest, I was fully clothed.






Let me know what you think

What should I do?

Cleaning the basement earlier this month, I noticed the artificial tree in the corner. The only time it moves is when I vacuum around it. We bought it about five years ago after the pine needles from a live tree aggravated my wife so much she decided she preferred a fake one. I was thrilled. Mom and Dad always had live trees, sometimes more than one, but my mother’s mother always had an artificial one and even then I could imagine a Christmas without having to trudge into the woods or to some tree farm to cut and haul out a Christmas tree on a cold December day. My grandmother was very practical, I thought.

Even the $250 plus price tag on the artificial tree didn’t spoil my mood. No more driving to lots and arguing with Mary about her endless search for the perfectly-shaped tree. A half hour later when we got home and put the tree in the front room she always found an imperfection and complained that it was my fault for rushing her and another argument ensued. It cost me more than I expected, but I enjoyed my first Christmas without a real tree and thought my grandmother would be proud.

Shortly after the following Thanksgiving I asked my wife if she wanted the tree brought up from the basement so she could decorate it nice and early. “That’s the advantage of having an artificial one. We can get it up nice and early,” I exclaimed.
To my surprise, she didn’t want it carried up.
“I want a real tree,” she said. “Everyone in your family has a real one. Your parents had two last Christmas.”
So we had had another argument. I was surprised to learn that I had pressured her into buying an artificial tree she never wanted and now I was intent on ruining another Christmas by forcing her to display that terrible fake tree that everyone in my family would make fun of. A couple of weeks later we went to a lot and picked out a live tree. The artificial one stayed in the basement.

“I saw a place in Cheshire that was selling trees for 19 dollars,” Mary told me about three weeks ago. “I just hope I can find it again.”
I didn’t respond.
A week later, Mary and I were riding at night with my oldest son Michael. The two of them were talking about staying within our Christmas budget.
“Why don’t we use the artificial tree this year and save the money for an extra Christmas present?,” I asked. They didn’t respond.

It is 10 days before Christmas and we have no tree up. I’m wondering if I should set a date later this week to get a live tree or just bring the artificial one up from the basement and surprise everyone.

Let me know what you think.

I am a Terrible Father

“Mr. Tomaselli, just between you and I, your son’s actual birthday is March 17,” said the woman from the pediatrician’s office. I put down the phone and slapped myself on the forehead before continuing.

I knew when she asked for Michael and Danny’s birthdays I was going to get one wrong. I said Danny’s was born March 15. Some of you have probably already figured out that there is no way I should ever get Danny’s big day wrong because he was born on St. Patrick’s Day. HE IS NAMED DANNY BECAUSE OF HIS BIRTHDAY. My mother’s mother, whose own mother was named McKeirnan, loved the song Danny Boy and played it each St. Pat’s Day. If Danny was born on March 15 he would have been named Joseph.

Remembering their birth dates and years has become harder and harder. I’m not sure if it has something to do with being a little older than 39 or that as they grow older we don’t make such a big deal about their birthdays. From birth to 5, birthdays were major productions, requiring lots of advance planning and plenty of food and drink for all the relatives and friends on both sides of the family.

From 5 to 10, the parties were held at bowling alleys, laser tag places, all-purpose sports facilities, karate clubs and other venues. It didn’t require much work on our part but we did have to shell out for about a dozen kids to attend and eat.

Starting at 11, the concern became the cost of their birthday requests and convincing them that I could not allow them and their friends to stay up all night during their birthday sleepovers. The sleepovers ended by the time they were 14.

I remember Michael’s birthday last year because he turned 16 and the next day he got his learner’s permit. I don’t remember what we did for Danny’s 14th birthday. I have promised Danny that on the day he turns 21 I will visit the bars with him. I suspect someone named Danny born on St. Patrick’s Day is going to be offered a lot of free drinks by the Irish. Maybe they will also take care of the guy who named him.

Love/Hate relationship

By Friday night, Michael had been telling us for three days about the snow expected to start Saturday and continue into Sunday. Michael, 16, loves snow, not because he likes to ski or snowboard or build snowmen. The only time he goes out is to shovel our walk or work with a neighbor that plows driveways and even then he does so reluctantly.

Michael loves snow because it cancels school and there is always the remote possibility that even a Saturday/Sunday storm could dump enough snow to at least delay the opening of school on Monday. Danny, 14, pretty much feels the same way. One difference is that Danny doesn’t like to use the expected bad weather as an excuse to put off his homework. On Tuesday night at around 8 p.m. he is sitting at the kitchen table doing his Wednesday homework.
“Good boy,” I tell him. “But I don’t think you are going to have school tomorrow.”
“I’m going to have to do it anyway,” he shrugs, continuing with this work.

Their dad hates snow because it makes it harder to get to where I have to go. Unlike school, the newspaper never gets canceled or delayed so for 24 years I’ve driven through all kinds of bad weather to get back and forth to the Record-Journal. Not only do I hate snow, I like to pretend it doesn’t exist. When colleagues start talking about an expected storm or complain about the ride in and the expected ride home, I get annoyed and shut them out. It’s my admittedly selfish way of dealing with something I don’t like but can’t change.

Let me know what you think.

Updates

Updates on issues that have come in past blogs.

Michael got his license this past Saturday. He returned from DMV around 11 a.m. Before I could even congratulate him he asked for my keys so he could drive to his friend Tyler’s house to tell him he had his license. At around 7 p.m. that same night, he drove to the house of another friend who lives about a mile away. My wife and I spent some time that night with friends at a downtown bar/restaurant. I left early, partly to avoid the ear-splitting volume when the band went on and partly to go home to worry and wait for Michael’s safe return. He arrived around 10:30 p.m. I survived.
The next day he took the car to the Wallingford YMCA.
For some reason, I’m really worried about his plan to drive to basketball practice between 6 and 6:30 a.m. this coming Saturday. Lyman Hall is less than a mile from our house, but I worry that he won’t be awake enough to drive himself and also about slick morning roads this time of year.
When I mentioned it to him, he replied: “I think I can handle it.”

Thanks to my wife, I do have a steady supply of walnuts. Although, I need to put them on the shopping list each week or she will not buy them. I know this because one week I forgot to write them down and when I noticed they weren’t in any of the shopping bags, I asked why. She replied: “You didn’t put them on the list.”
While walnuts have to put on the list each week, I notice those really delicious but expensive Friendlies sun-daes are replenished even though they never appear on the list.
Earlier this week, I told a colleague she was buy-ing a cheaper brand of walnuts. I checked when I got home last night. Mary says they are actually a better, more expensive brand of “natural” walnuts. Is there any other kind?

I have resumed bringing my shirts to the dry cleaner each week. I didn’t mind the ironing. I did mind that after all that effort my shirts looked lousy. White Way does a great job and the employees are very nice.