I said that every year I think about a plastic tree. They're better than they used to be, they're more eco-friendly, and they don't involve me belly-crawling on the carpet trying to anchor the tree-stand and getting pitch all over myself. But they also don't smell like Christmas, and that counts for a lot.
Then I told him that my parents eventually went to a plastic tree when I was growing up. Over time, the 'limbs' didn't fit together quite the way they used to, so we had to use duct tape to 'tighten' the fit of the ends into the sockets. And he burst out laughing: "Duct tape on a plastic Christmas tree— how can it get more pathetic than that? And are those really the kind of childhood memories you want to build for the future?"
I had to ask, "Knowing my Dad, can you honestly see it going any other way? It would start out with good intentions, but eventually you'd always get to the falling-apart plastic tree with the duct tape."
We laughed ourselves into tears over that, and then detoured through the memory of the 'yellow-jacket' Christopher made for an age-4 preschool project. These were supposed to be papier-mache insects, but he kept thinking his was too flimsy and adding more duct tape to reinforce it. At Open House, there were all these hanging displays of various insect-like creatures, and then Christopher's 10-pound multi-wad duct-tape monstrosity. I think his artistic 'propensities' were already entirely evident at that age. :0
The duct tape stories cracked us up more than tonight's movie, 50 First Dates. SO many people liked that movie that I rented it in spite of Adam Sandler, and we forced ourselves to watch it. Parts of it were kind of sweet, but I came away hating Adam Sandler even more. Those kinds of juvenile neuroses and penis obsessions? You pay a therapist to work those out— you don't expect movie audiences to pay to endure them. *is disgruntled* *needs new gruntles*
So, like my icon?