I am not lying when I tell you that our tree is…what’s the word, what’s the word…homely. It’s homely. It’s homey, too, but definitely homely.

It started out okay at the tree farm.

While I was taking this picture, everyone was yelling at me to help.  I did. Eventually.

But then we decorated. And our decorations are, really, quite bad.

We’ve got more kid-made ornaments than you can shake a stick at:
I was actually trying to just take a picture of one, but they were packed in so close it was just easier, and more point-proving, to grab all three at once.

We’ve got relics of Michael’s childhood, which always seem to involve basketball and Charlie Brown characters.
This wins my vote as the most bizarre Santa I’ve ever seen.

We’ve got ornaments that make no sense to anyone not us:
phone booth
No, we didn’t go to London one year. THAT would make SENSE.

And we have, as promised, the world’s most bizarre star.
Yes, that’s a picture of Annabel on her trip home from the hospital glued onto a paper star that has since been decorated with glitter paint and I could explain it but, frankly, the story is less interesting that the star.

And that’s not even going into the knitted garland, the half-broken lights, or the angel who looks like a hooker from 1864.

But Christmas trees have one redeeming quality and it’s this: if you plug in the lights, step back a bit, drink a cup of really strong eggnog, and don’t pay too much attention to any one thing, they still manage to look kind of pretty.


And, yes, blurry. That’s probably the fault of the eggnog.

P.S. You think this is bad? Check out the year we actually screwed extra branches into the tree. A live tree. I am not making that up. We did that.