Every December it was the same excruciating tradition. Our
family would get up at the crack of dawn, go to a Christmas
tree farm and tromp across acres of snow in search of the
perfect tree. Hours later our feet would be freezing, but
Mom would press on, convinced the tree of her dreams was
"just up ahead."
One year I snapped. "Mom, face it. The perfect tree doesn't
exist. It's like looking for a man. Just be satisfied if
you can find one that isn't dead, doesn't have too many bald
spots and is straight."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"A man in Sicily had himself arrested so he wouldn't have
to spend the holidays with his relatives. How many guys are
going, 'Why didn't we think of that?'" -Jay Leno
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As we were putting out cookies for Santa on Christmas Eve,
I accidentally dropped one. "No problem," I said, picking
it up and dusting it off before placing it back on the
plate.
"You can't do that," argued my four-year-old.
"Don't worry. Santa will never know."
He shot me a look. "So he knows if I've been bad or good,
but he doesn't know if you dropped a cookie on the floor?"
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