Today’s the day, friends. The Wilson Tinsel War is about to begin. I’m watching my husband Doo prepare our obscenely large Douglas fir for lights, ornaments and, yes, the highly controversial artificial aluminum gorgeousness that is holiday tinsel.
See, 2019 is my year to decorate our 12-foot tannenbaum in the tradition of my youth. Luckily for our marriage, most of this Doo also enjoyed growing up. Employing fire-hazard, multi-colored ceramic lights, a hodge-podge of ornaments ranging from Waterford crystal to dry macaroni, we happily agree that the end product should be a gaudy narrative of our lives.Where we differ is the literal icing on the cake, and by that phrase I mean fake icicles on a tree. I grew up with a butt-load of tinsel covering every single reachable bough; he did not. And so for the past 20 years, in order to avoid copious amounts of therapy, we have agreed on alternating.
In 2018, I silently endured a naked conifer, sad and dark without that silvery ‘wow’ factor. This December, it’s Doo’s turn to suck it. The problem is, he’s not quite as accepting of a Danielle Christmas as I am of a Doo one. And, he’s indoctrinated our sons into his stupid way of thinking. Luckily, I have the girls on my side, and the aforementioned boy children are still away at college. Hopefully, this means the Tinsel War will be less Antietam and more Treat of Paris.
Time will tell. I am waiting until the last possible moment to remind him, with photographic evidence, if necessary, that this is a tinsel year. Let the war begin!
Peace out.
