So anywho, we began the process of Christmas-tree-putting-upping. Chubby Charles skulked around as per typical C-LO behavior. Things were quite lovely. We managed to untie all the lights successfully and assemble our fake tree (which is against my Christmas tree philosophy because I find the spirit of Christmas is found in hacking down a live tree, but I have since relented because we live in a third-floor apartment and cleanup + stairs = major biotch).
Last year M bought this little frame ornament, which was supposed to have a photo of the Chubstress but I never had a photo to put in there because I am apparently not THAT insane of an Old Cat Lady just yet. THEN! I remembered I could chop up the photo of me and The Bachelor and put Brad's mug in there, to commemorate the Year of The Bachelor. Because until I am an Old Cat Lady, I will always say "Remember the year The Bachelor came to town?"
So I went and retrieved my wonderful Halloween prop which had been awkwardly migrating around my room like a Bible that someone gave me, because what do you do with a framed photo of you with a celebrity? You can't throw it away, that's weird. So you move it around your room with a Bible.
But I can't look you in the eye and tell you "OK you can sit there on my desk in that frame."
and voodoo dolls involved.
Rosie: Brad, you're a jerk.
Brad: Wow. Wow. I don't know what to say. Believe it or not, my heart was broken too.
Rosie: Brad, you're a cutie-patootie.
Brad: Wow. Absolutely. Yeah. Can I get you anything?
THE LOUDEST SOUND EVER interrupted our nice quiet Christmas music and my mocking monologue of Rosie and Brad's strange voice.
The fire alarm was going off. Not just in our apartment, but the whole building.
At first I thought it was residual smoke from my exploding microwave dinner experience last night. However when fire alarms are going off, you don't ask questions. I proceeded to try to gather up Chubby Charles to take her downstairs, while she proceeded to scratch the shit out of me until I threw her on the ground and said "Fine! Die in a fire, see if I care." We then filed downstairs like good apartment dwellers, sans C-LO.
Once downstairs, we were forced to reckon with reality: Our nice quiet Christmas decorating night had been rudely interrupted by someone -- it was later reported -- lighting a towel on fire. Do not ask me how that happens.
Fortunately I risked life and limb to go back upstairs, pop open a bottle of 'Dre (that's parking lot for Andre champagne, yo) and retrieve M's camera. I then stopped for a photo which my mom will probably use against me in the future:
I leave you with this parting shot of the new family photo which perhaps I will have printed on Christmas cards. But probably not.