Monday, December 19, 2011

All I Want For Khristmas is Kardashian Kard

While I have been checking the mail anxiously all month for Christmas cards from my friends and family, finally the most important one showed up today. Okay, so it wasn't sent to me personally, but Kim Kardashian posted the pics on her website, which is basically the same thing.

In case you have a moral obligation against actually clicking on something that is part of the Kardashian brand, this is said card photo:
I know what you're thinking. This is the epitome of everything that is wrong with America. Those cats in that Sarah Mclachlan commercial need just 60 cents a day just to survive, and this family probably shelled out six figures in an attempt to look like extras from a Vogue shoot. I don't even want to think about what the total was for the lighting, styling, and pre-Christmas card facelifts in order the get this photo.

But if you saw their card last year, you know that this is not out of the ordinary for the over-exposed Klan. They've been putting out ridiculous holiday cards for years. For example, 2010:

um, bruce? bruce? look over here. yep, right here. someone call bruce, please

Now even back in the day, the Kardashians were working the whole mixed family giant cheesy card photos. But they still look like a semi normal family, whereas they just look miserable now because you know the women have been starving themselves just to get into their sample size Pucci gowns. I mean, look at this picture at tell me this is not what Christmas cards are all about?!

it's 2011. do you know where your children are, bruce?

I'm not going to lie, I have a few family Christmas photos that slightly resemble this myself. The Christmas card was a big deal in my family, complete with a 3 month planning stage, a day long photo shoot and then a few more agonizing hours of selecting the actual picture where we would argue about who looked the best in which photos. There was usually a theme with some sort of coordinating outfits, followed by a whitty poetic verse that my mother created.

no, this is not a gap ad. but thank you

But these newfangled Kardashian Kards are just taking awkward family photos to a whole new extreme. It was one thing last year to put out this highly stylized holiday greeting, but why would you continue this level of craziness in 2011 when everyone in the world can't stop talking about hot self-centered and overexposed you are?! Also, I would love to know what the time frame was for this photo shoot. Did they do this in October like we used to? Was Kris Humphries part of the mockup? I would love to know if he was originally a part of this and then Photoshopped out. It's totally possible, as even the blind can tell that the Kardashian's love themselves some retouching.

To make matters worse (please, hold onto your dinner for this one), this card is actually also viewable with 3D glasses, which I'm sure you can purchase for $14.95 at Dash. Well Kardashians, on this one, the Scalera's have you beat, as our 2002 card featured an actual piece of flannel tied through the card to make it look like we were wearing scarves.

Also, do you think it's weird that Kourtney and Scott don't put out their own card even though they have a child and another on the way? Or Khloe and Lamar? Or Kim and her ass? Do you think that Kris Jenner has them all contractually obligated to appear in the family Christmas card through 2050? And most importantly, what year exactly did the Jenner children get excommunicated? So.many.questions.

All I can say is, that is not a Christmas card. This is a Christmas card:

actual caption: we're never too busy to wish you a merry christmas

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

I Fought the Law and... I Won?

I know that everyone is sitting on the edge of their seats to see a picture of our genetically altered tree in all its decorated glory, however I must digress for this entry because I absolutely have got to share about my recent run in with the law.

Before you jump to conclusions, know that I went to court for a hearing to dispute a ticket for not having my car registered FROM AUGUST. Although I would have loved to have had the chance to "plead the fifth" or "handle the truth," it was not at all glitz or glamor as the 15 different versions of Law & Order would have you believe it to be.

Back on this fateful Friday night at the end of August, I got pulled over in Holliston on my way home from work. When the police officer asked me why I was pulled over I had no idea, as it was physically impossible for me to be speeding on Main Street, USA. He informed me that my registration was expired and that technically he should have my car towed because it's illegal to drive an unregistered vehicle (I love how they tell you all the things they "could do" just to make girls like me start crying, like the time a police officer told me he "could" have me arrested for driving in MA with my NH license that was no longer valid because I didn't live there anymore).

It was then that I realized that I wasn't a moron, I did know that my registration was expired. It slowly started to come to me... I remembered Steve saying something about going to get my car registered, but he couldn't for some reason... because something wasn't done right... the inspection? Had my car not passed? Well yeah, that also happened but it was something else...

"You have an outstanding Fast Lane violation you haven't paid yet," said Officer Intimidation.

Ugh. Now I remembered. Steve had been begging me to look into that notice I had gotten for going through the toll without a Speedpass. Only I had a Speedpass, so I was convinced I was innocent and saw no reason to actually contact them. They would figure it out.

He was nice enough to "let me go" with my illegal car, but still issued me a $100 ticket, and then told me that I was too honest telling him the whole story about my husband begging me to pay the violation so he could register my car and that that was the only reason it wasn't registered and I was so so SO sorry and I would go home and do it right away but it's Friday and I don't think I can do it online this late at night and I have to work all weekend so I have to drive my car but what if I get pulled over again? I was so confused- hadn't I been taught my whole life by my parents, teachers and other generally decent human beings that it was always better to tell the truth than to tell a lie? Was he fining me for my registration being outdated or taking up too much of his time truthtelling?

Just to put me more into shock, he told me that although he was giving me a ticket, I should appeal it and appear in court and LIE and tell them I didn't know it was expired and they would drop the fine. This really confused me because if the whole point of all of this is to get them to drop it, shouldn't you just not give me a ticket right now and save all of us the extra time and paperwork?!

So cut to four months later, I'm due to appear in court for my hearing at 11:15. So naturally I start panicking at 9:00. My first dilemma was, what to wear? How does one dress for a traffic hearing? My goal was to look nice enough that they could tell I wasn't a delinquent but not so nice that I looked like I had enough disposable income to afford a $100 ticket. But I was weary of overdressing and looking like I was trying too hard to look innocent. I settled on dark jeans, black ankle boots, and longish white tank and a cropped black jacket with pearl detailing on the edges.

I headed over to the Framingham District Courthouse an hour early. From what I've heard, these things take an insanely long time and it helps to be punctual. But of course it was POURING. Not just like raining, but like movie rain hose from the sky pouring. Luckily I had my Gap trench and new clear bubble umbrella to chicly shield me from the weather, however parking was another story.

When I pulled up to the lot, it appeared that not only was it full, there was a sign that said "Employes Only." Weird, I thought. How could that many people work in this small building? And where is everyone else supposed to park? I continued on, circling the perimeter of the building. The street adjacent to the courthouse appeared to serve as additional parking, but the sign said there was a parking ban that only permitted people to park on the odd side of the street. I looked around. People were clearly parked on both sides of the street! I knew I couldn't take my chances and inched into a space on the odd side. Parking on the incorrect side of the streets and ignoring the signs when it's clearly marked is something that only happens to you once. Or in my case, twice.

After my minor parking dilemma, I tried to mentally prepare myself with my story for when I took the stand. At this point I was about a half an hour early and still feeling okay, until I realized that my two index fingers had NO nail polish on them all, while my other eight digits were polished with shiny red glitter. I forgot that were majorly chipped yesterday and I peeled them off with the intention to repaint them prior to my hearing. This did not look good. If having an unkempt manicure isn't a sign of disorganization I don't know what is. Good thing I always carry a small bottle of nail polish remover with me in my little purse emergency kit.

BUT IT WAS GLITTER! Red glitter. It took me a solid 15 minutes to get all of it off. Now I would only be 15 minutes early. Also I smelled like rubbing alcohol. What if the judge thought I was ingesting it in order to flush illegal narcotics out of my system to pass a drug test? I hear that's what the kids are doing these days.

And what was I going to do with all the nail polish remover soaked tissues? I couldn't leave them in my car. It would ruin my new car smell. I didn't see any trash cans in sight and there was no way I was going to litter because it's totally against my beliefs. Also there were tons of cops around, but that's besides the point. I figured I would just have to put them in pocket and throw them away inside.

I hustled down the sidewalk to get into the building, getting splashed by giant waves of water with every car that passed by. Nice. I rushed into the building only to be confronted by a giant body scanner/metal detector thing. Were they serious? I plunked my oversized purse down on the conveyor belt and stepped through, setting off the detector immediately. I couldn't believe it. In all the years since I became a bionic woman (i.e. had a titanium rod put in my back) I have never set off a metal detector, even though there have been a few times I wanted to for some strange reason. "It's probably your shoes," the security guard said. Fat chance, I wanted to tell him, as I buy pretty much all my shoes at Payless and they are clearly plastic.

So I had to stand there with my arms and legs spread as he waved that little wand around me, while his buddy over at the machine informed me he had to check my purse. Of course he has to check my purse. It was then I realized that in my state of frantic nail polish removal that I had torn through my bag, leaving it completely disheveled and unorganized. As he started poking around, I could clearly make out that my bag seemed to be exploding tampons everywhere. Not only were there feminine hygiene products in plain sight, but I seemed to be hoarding all of my electronic devices in my bag as well. "Just make sure you keep that camera inside your bag when you're in there," he warned. Right, because this was a day I really wanted to remember. Also, my laptop cord was hanging out, which I was pretty sure he was going to consider it a weapon and confiscate it. For some reason he let me go, and even offered to hold my sopping wet umbrella for me.

He told me to head up the stairs to registration for my paperwork. What was this, freshman orientation? They were the ones who told me to be there at a certain time. Weren't they just expecting me? I raced up the cold metal staircase and found myself in a bustling courthouse like you see on TV dramas. The floors were marble, which only exaggerated how many people were rushing around there as you could hear every step they took. Every office had one of those wooden doors with the big glass windows on them.

After finding my way through registration, the woman told me to head up to the second floor. But I had already went up a flight of stairs to get here. Aren't I on the second floor now? Whatever, I didn't want to ask anyone, as nobody seemed particularly friendly.

Finally I made it to the second floor even though I was convinced I was really on the third floor. Maybe this is one of the ways they get inside your head and break you down so you confess. I took a seat in front of hearing room 4 and awaited my fate. But I couldn't stop myself from staring at everybody who walked by, wondering what horrible things they have done to end up here.

It was then I realized I still had all those tissues in my pockets. I scanned the room for a trash can, trying to stand as close to it as possible in order to minimize people witnessing me tossing out multiple red stained tissues, which I had just realized probably didn't do much to convince anyone of my innocence.

The sign on the door said "Quiet- Court In Session," but the building was so echoey there was no way I would be able to hear my name called. Oh God, I realized, I have to pee. I always have to pee when I get nervous. But it was already 11:10. What if I missed my time and was automatically found guilty? I would just have to hold it.

A woman leaned to take a drink at the water fountain beside me. I looked over and she was wearing handcuffs. HANDCUFFS. She was in a total mom sweater and looked like someone that would bake cookies for your local PTA. Hardly seemed like a criminal, but was being escorted by a police officer nonetheless. She was still smiling though! This place was insane.

Across from me, an elderly gentleman was being spoken to by an attorney about whether he meant to intentionally steal something from someone. He looked like he could have been my grandfather. Oh dear God, please get me out of here, I begged in my head.

It was then I noticed that a bunch of other people seemed to have lawyers accompanying them into their hearings as their names were called. For traffic hearings? Was I supposed to get a lawyer? Or should I have been studying up these past four months with online law courses to learn how to defend myself a la Bringing Down the House?

I started to feel lightheaded. Probably from inhaling all that nail polish remover in the car, but I was beginning to debate booking it out of there and just paying the $100 fine.

Everyone that was there was on opposite sides of the wardrobe spectrum. There was not one person who was in the middle (except for me, of course). People were either decked out in sweatpants and Ocean State Job Lot athletic sweatshirts or they were in full suits. There was one guy in a navy suit with an aggressively green dress shirt that made him look like the Joker. Not a great way to prove you're not a criminal, buddy.

Oh jeez, now a baby is crying. This had to be what hell feels like.

Finally, my name was called. I grabbed my stuff and bolted into the room, which looked oddly like an academic classroom in an old building. There was no bench, no judge, no jury- not at all like what I was expecting. Just me, a police office and a clerk sitting at a desk.

As the officer read my offense, I tried to remind myself in my head what my story was. Don't say too much, I reminded myself. Don't tell the truth, the whole truth so help you God. Just say, "I didn't know."

"So did you fix this online?" the officer asked after he finished reading.

"Yes," I said. "I tried to do it that night but it was Friday so they wouldn't let me do anything until Mon-"

"So it's all set then."

"Um yes. It was all set on Monday. And I ended up getting a new car like a week later so I had to reregister anyway." Too much?!

"Well then," he said. "Aren't new cars nice?" Wait, was he mocking me? It almost sounded like he was implying I was a spoiled housewife who was just sitting around, waiting for her husband to buy her a new Bentley. I had to defend myself against his unfair judgements!

"Yeah but it wasn't just like, a new car, I mean, I really needed it. It's the first new car I've ever had. My old car was almost 11 years-"

"Okay you're all set. You can go."

"Oh. That's it?"

"That's it."

And just like that, it was over. After days of preparing my alibi, selecting the most court-worthy ensemble, and having mini panic attacks for the past 3 hours, I was a free woman. I flew out of that courthouse, grabbed my umbrella, and got the hell out of there. And I vowed never to return.

So the moral of the story is, stay on top of your crap. Don't end up a cautionary tale like me. And apparently, lying to a police officer is okay.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Rocking Around the Christmas Tree Is Not a Possibility

So by now you've all heard the beginning of the story of us picking out our first tree as man and wife. If you haven't heard it, I guess we're not really friends. If you would like to fix that and get back in my good graces again, you can catch up on it here.

When we last left, our heroine Lindsay had finally selected her perfect tree cutting ensemble. She thought this would be the most difficult part of an otherwise happy occasion. She would soon find out how easy she had it when the hardest thing she had to do was hunt down the perfect red flannel.

Ahhh I can't write like that. Third person is not my friend. Anywho...

So Steve and I woke bright and early (um like 8:30- yikes) on Thursday morning so we could head up to New Hampshire to select our first fir. Why NH, you ask, when we live in Massachusetts and are completely surrounded by trees? Well I'll tell you, my friends. Steve is something of a tree elitist. A treelitist, if you will. He has been picking out trees in the rolling forests of NH for years for his family, and has always considered them to be superior to all other New England trees. Being a NH born citizen myself, I completely understand viewing the state as a mecca of all things nature and mountainy, however it's a slight inconvenience when you live an hour and ten minutes from even its most southern border (which Steve doesn't even thing qualifies as "real" NH and refers to it as Northern MA). But this was going to be a special occasion- when else in our lives would we ever pick out our first tree? You know, other than the one we had last year. Our first married tree. Not that we're marrying the tree. You get what I'm saying.

If I was going to be getting up that early on a day off and spending a majority of it outdoors traipsing around a farm, I was going to need some sort of compensation. Steve really had his heart set on a tree farm in Portsmouth and I knew immediately what my bargaining tool would be:


The Friendly Toast is one of my favorite places. I got chocolate milk and cinnamon raisin French toast. I don't remember what Steve had but he seemed happy about it, despite the fact it was cutting into our woodsy time.

doesn't he look like he would fit in at a truck stop?

After taking what felt like 4 years to get our check, we finally were on our way to Tonry's Tree Farm where all of Steve's Christmas dreams would be coming true. We had spent a little time in downtown Portsmouth, so by the time we got there it was almost 1:00. In my head I had hoped we'd be back by 1:00 so we could start decorating. However, if you know us you know that timing isn't exactly one of our strong points as a couple. But I let it go, because there were acres and acres of tree farm to be combed and we essentially had the place to ourselves, because let's face it- who else is going to hit up a tree farm at 1:00 on a Thursday?!

All the little areas of the farm had names. I was hoping our tree would come from this one:

this is where all the sexy trees hang out

But alas, it wasn't happening for us in the Vixen Field. In fact, none of the trees in any of the 20 million fields were doing anything for us. Because all of the good ones were tagged. Tagged! December 1st! All the nice normal tree shaped trees had already been claimed by happy families just sitting at home while we were out in the trenches picking through their left overs. I started to get bitter. Steve just kept finding tree after tree that he thought was "perfect." Like this one:

fat bottomed tree, you make the rocking world go round

Now I'm aware that people tag trees. We had this same issue last year when we slummed it picking out our tree in Rhode Island. But I really thought that was because we were so late getting one. I never imagined that in a place with this many trees that so many of them would already be claimed.

And not just claimed. Claimed and decorated. The tags I saw last year were just little red tickets with people's last names on them. Apparently, in NH, they don't mess around. I mean, they do live free or die. Apparently they live so free that they decorate trees that AREN'T EVEN ALL THE WAY THEIRS YET as you only need 10% down to claim your tree. Tree layaway, is what it is. Treeaway. I can't believe none of these tree farmers have capitalized on any of these terms yet.

Some trees just had like, red tacky bows from the dollar store on them. Others went all out, with themes and everything. Like this one:

how embarassing

There were others that really wanted you to know how proud they were of their roots. GET IT?! Roots?

hey, I think this tree belongs to someone

By this point, I started to think awful thoughts.
Me: How much would I have to pay you to take off one of these tags?
Steve: Stop it. Karma will get you. And Christmas karma is worse.
Me: Whatever.

If you've ever gone shopping with my husband, you know ahead of time to set aside at least 5 hours or else you will end up having to cancel the rest of your plans that day. I knew it would be a long day, because he takes 2 hours to pick out a pair of sneakers, so I could only imagine how long it would take for something that we would have to look at every day in our home for a month. I still was not prepared to walk around every field of that damn tree farm twice.

The weather was deceivingly nice for December 1st- no clouds, blue skies, sunshine. Because of this I felt it unnecessary to bring gloves or a hat. During the first hour I was like "eh, there's a slight nip in the air, but no biggie." At first, I actually thought it was weird to be picking out a tree when it had been like 60 degrees the day before. But by hour two... I was dying. I instantly began to regret every decision I had made that day, starting with wearing my brown heeled books. I was sinking into the wet, mushy grass as I walked up and down the same hills four times because we had to revisit tree candidates that we weren't sure about. I could barely keep the snot from dripping out of my nose and my eyes were watering so much, it looked like I had an emotional breakdown when I finally left the farm that day. But let's get back to how we finally selected "the tree."

Earlier in our travels, we had both spotted a tree that had somehow grown like 4 feet off the ground. We both commented on it's nice shape and kept moving.

But later, as we were nearing the 3:00 mark, we walked by said tree again and started seriously considering this as a our potential tree. It was hard to tell exactly how big it was, giving that the actual tree part started so high and the cold had killed most of of my critical thinking abilities. Steve tried to measure the tree from the bottom of the branches up to see if it would fit.

an optical illusion...?

Since we had no idea how tall the ceilings were, we had to call the apartment complex to check. 9 feet exactly! Using the oldest measuring tape in the world, Steve deduced that the tree was about 8 feet tall. We started to think we were in business.

So after much deliberation we decided it was time to cut.

I wasn't prepared to do any actual sawing, but still felt the need to stage a photo in my outfit and all:

take that, l.l.- bean, not cool j

But being a lady lumberjack is not all fun. It's hard work too.

i'm not cut out for this

So Steve jumped in.

By this time I was starting to go a little cray cray in the brain. I was so overcome with emotion and hypothermia that I almost took it out on the tree:

this tree knows who is in charge

But then it was time to get the thing on top of the car. Fortunately, my husband spared me this and let me stay in the car with the heat on, sitting on my hands hoping to regain feeling in them again.

i pulled the rope. my only contribution to this part besides capturing it on film

Finally, it was time to head home. We said goodbye to the tree farm and I silently hoped to never return again.

note that is is now almost dark

Needless to say, we didn't get home until almost 7:00. Also, I was so full from my breakfast that I hadn't had anything else to eat that day. We left the tree on top of the car and relaxed for 2.2 seconds while we tried to figure out a plan of attack.

Steve had called his friend Mark on the way home to ask him to help us get the tree upstairs, because clearly I am of no use at all when it comes to lifting heavy things covered in sap.

Yet when we got home, Mark didn't pick up his phone. After calling repeatedly, Steve was overcome with the desire to get the tree inside NOW. So for the second year in a row, he threw the tree on top of his back and carried it up 3 FLIGHTS OF STAIRS.

Finally Mark showed up and the men began to assess the situation. There may have been maps, blueprints and other specs to figure out where exactly the tree was going to go.

tool time

It wasn't until the tree was inside that we really started to question the size of it. I mean, we knew it was tall, but how did it suddenly double in width? Had it grown on the way home?

We couldn't really determine anything until we saw it standing up in the tree stand.

Did you know that Steve has trouble making decisions? All week he had been debating between two different stands that looked basically identical to me:


As the guys had the tree finally standing upright in our 690 sq. ft apartment, it hit me.

This tree is too damn big.

I still don't even feel like any of these pictures really show how much of a monstrosity this thing is. No matter where we put it, it's in the middle of our apartment. It's like we have a third roommate. Besides Mark.

A panic immediately began to set in for me. We were going to have to share our home with this thing for a month. Last year we had so many ornaments between the two of us that you could hardly see the tree anymore. Steve actually looked at this tree and told me, "I don't think we have enough ornaments."

Although I should have been happy that he was basically giving me permission to shop (wait, is that not what you got out of that comment?) instead I felt the making of a stroke looming inside me. How are we going to live like this? You have to turn sideways to get around it just to enter the living room, and then once you're in there you have to do the same thing to get into the dining area. It's going to shed everywhere. I have already found needles in parts of my apartment that are no where in the vicinity of this tree (although I guess everything in here is now technically in the vicinity of this thing). When Steve emptied the vacuum it looked as if a small baby tree had already formed inside of it.

He could tell I was freaking out.

Steve: I feel like you want to cry right now.
Me: Um, no. I'm fine.
Steve: I think you want to cry but you're not doing it because Mark is here.
Me: False. I'm just thinking.
Steve: I can tell when you're upset.

Whether or not he thought I was on the verge of tears, Steve and Mark still deemed it a good time to reward themselves for all the work they did. And that reward was scotch (because you can't make it home from NH without hitting up a highway liquor store) with a pine garnish. Steve claims the sap enhances the taste.

flannel, pine and scotch. does a man need anything else?

So now, cut to me, living in a forest, which if you know me, is that last place I want to be.

I'm still trying to come to terms with the tree. Steve has volunteered to remove it and try to give it to someone else, but after spending an entire day and $55 on this thing, I don't feel like that is fair to any of us.

Steve often checks in on me and the tree to see if we are starting to form some sort of bond, as observed by this text just this morning.

Steve: Are you and the tree getting along?
Me: We're working on our issues.

The tree is now it's own entity, as if it is a giant person. Steve depicts it as a bully that we are forced to serve in fear of it's wrath.

Steve: When I woke up in the middle of the night the tree pushed me against the wall and said, "Listen, I want a full sized chicken every night."
Me: That's not funny. This tree could kill us.

Steve: When I got home today, the tree was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette.
Me: Dear God, please stop.

None of this would have happened if we had just gotten the tree that I wanted.

sigh. i miss you

So now my only hope is that somehow, decorations will help tone down the ginormous-ness of this thing in my living room. If you don't hear form me for 8 days, it's because I'm still decorating. Or the tree has swallowed me whole, Little Shop of Horrors-style.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree, What Shall I Wear to Cut Thee?

omg. omg. omg.

We are in crisis mode in the Scouras household right now.

For you to truly understand where we are, you have to know how we got here.

This is where it all began...

Most men have particular values they they refuse to budge on, like only buying American made cars. Steve has many, but one of his biggest things is having a real live Christmas Tree. And not just any tree. Within 500 feet of our complex is a Home Depot selling tress for $30 and even a Boy Scout troop that have set up shop in the liquor store parking lot. He scoffs every time he drives by these "dead" trees and reminds me for the 200th time that he would never allow another person to cut down his Christmas tree. Ever.

Last year was our first Christmas living together so picking out the tree was a big deal. Since I like to pretend I have my own reality show, we even videotaped ourselves selecting the tree and subsequently cutting it down. We made a few mistakes though, that we were determined not to repeat this year.

1. We got the tree literally a week before Christmas. If you've never cut down your own tree before (which I hadn't since I was like, 5) you know it's a TON of work and not really worth rearranging your entire home for a week of enjoyment.
2. We had a wedding looming. Everything was on stress overload and getting a tree wasn't high on the priority list until one day we were like "oh crap, we need a tree."
3. When we got to the tree farm in Rhode Island, every single normal looking tree had already been tagged. We were left to choose from different shapes of shrubbery and Charlie Brown trees.
4. We bought the tree one random morning before both of us had to work. Steve had to drive to work and then home with the tree on the roof because we didn't even have enough time to set it up that day.

Despite all of these things, we ended up with a nice little first tree.

sigh. i'm depressed now. also, now i miss my couch

So this year, we were going to do it the right way. Steve has been telling me for 6 months that we were going to get our tree from NH because "that's where trees come from." We picked a day that we were both off, which happened to be December 1st. Perfect tree date.

So of course, I had to start planning my outfit.

I knew right away I wanted to wear red flannel, because that's what lumberjacks wear when they cut down trees and cutting down your Christmas tree is pretty much the closest you'll ever come to being a lumberjack. The problem was I wanted to be like a cute lumberjack, and if you've ever seen a real lumberjack, it's not a word that is often related. I should know, as I am forced to watch many shows that have the word "Logger" in the title.

The best place to buy flannel is clearly L.L. Bean. While I love all my outerwear from Maine's finest export, I make a point not to buy clothes there, because everything is boxy and pleated. Total Mom jeans, all the way.

oh, hey guys.

So I braved the mall Black Friday weekend searching for the best fitting red flannel shirt money could buy. But not like real money, more like BF sale money, because I knew Steve would have a coronary if I spent an exorbitant amount on another themed article of clothing.

The first place I went to was the Land's End shop at Sears. I was so disappointed in their flannel selection. Isn't Land's End supposed to be like in direct competition with the Bean? They had 2 women's flannel shirts- one was orange, and one was blue. Not Christmas-y. I did appreciate however that they came in petite sizes, but I didn't even try them on because who wants to look like a flannel traffic cone?!

Next I hit Hollister/Gilly Hicks/Aero/AE/A&F. While those may be separate stores, I hate them all equally so they get lumped together. 4 out of 5 of those places smell like last call at a skanky club and I'm convinced that you're going to hear about them being investigated in a child pornography ring someday because all their employees are 14 and scantily clad to the point that I feel like I can't look directly at them. Most of them had at least fake flannel shirts (you know, the ones that look like it but don't feel like it- so basically, plaid shirts), but they were all in colors like pink, orange or turquoise and about 5 inches too short for me, which I'm guessing is their tactic for keeping the old farts out (i.e. people over the age of 20). I did actually find a pattern at Hollister that I liked and that was actually flannel but it was a "Dudes" shirt, which is their incredibly dumb way of saying it's for men. Well, boys. Man boys. Given that Hollister stuff is miniature, I thought maybe I could rock a "Dudes S." However, since it's made for Dudes that look like this, it was straight up and down super boxy and not at all flattering. I was really disappointed, because the color and the feel of it was exactly what I was looking for. Also, I spent all my breaks that weekend knocking over tweens trying to get to these stupid shirts anyway.

I began to advertise my plight to coworkers and I was quickly told by them that Target definitely carries flannel shirts. Since I never need a reason to go to Target, I hustled over there and found a few shirts from their Mossimo brand that could have potential. I am normally a small, and I found it weird that the shirt kept gaping at the bust line because I am certainly not known for having a large chest. I grabbed a medium, and it was the same thing. Ick. Even for only $16, I couldn't do it. Busting out is never a good look, not even for a lady lumberjack. Well probably especially not for them.

On Tuesday night I got a text from a coworker while I was trying on said shirt at Target informing me there were were some faux-flannel red shirts at Marshall's. While I really didn't want to forgo the warmth of actual flannel, at this point I felt like I had become desperate and the only thing that would make me feel better was to buy something. I know, not healthy but the pressure! Oh, the pressure.

I ended up finding 2 that I liked and of course, couldn't decide. One was like a normal red flannel shirt with a green accents and the other one was slightly longer (more like a tunic) red flannel with black accents. One was $10, one was $12.99. What's a girl to do?

I know what you're thinking, and I also thought perhaps the answer was to buy both. Once again I reminded myself that this is something I will most likely wear once and that I was already way off the deep end for worrying this much about it. I settled on the $12.99 tunic because I felt like I could wear it with more things (in my head I was envisioning black leggings and riding boots... which I don't currently have but are on my Christmas list) and it would cover the zipper on my skinny jeans that always manages to unzip itself. Listen. This is a judge free zone. I bought one pair of skinny jeans for $12 from Forever 21 three years ago. I refuse to spend more on that because I feel like the second I do, they will go completely out of style, which was my same reason three years ago for not investing in them in the first place. I guess I showed them seeing as I'm still wearing them.

After I bought my new flannel, the same coworker texted me:
"You know I have a Ralph Lauren Rugby flannel very festive primarily red but has green orange in it. I'll bring it in tomorrow, you can borrow if for your pic tree outing so ur not spending $ on a shirt you don't love for a one time use."

If that didn't put my crazy ass in perspective, I don't know what would.

So I tried on her shirt. I immediately liked it because the tag said "slim fit" which meant I would be allowed to have a shape underneath. It also had a patch of brown suede on the front of one of the shoulders, which I enjoyed but was confused why it was only on one.

When I woke up today (tree day!) I was so excited. I put on my ghetto skinny jeans with my brown boots and tucked my borrowed flannel into my jeans with a brown belt. I even accessorized with a gold leaf necklace. It was Lindsay at her most outdoorsy-ness.

lumberjack barbie. saw sold separately

I thought Steve would be excited because flannel is one of his favorite things. In fact, we were flannel twins that day (mainly because I forced him to wear it as well, not that it took that much convincing). However, after I got dressed it seemed like a long amount of time had gone by and he had made zero comments about my outfit.

Me: You look woodsy.
Steve: Thank you.
Me: Do I look woodsy?
Steve: No.
Me: Why not?
Steve: Because you just spent 20 minutes putting on makeup. Just because you're wearing flannel doesn't make you outdoorsy.


Oh well. At least I got one picture of us together out of it.

flannel twins!

Needless to say, this is only part 1 of Steve and Lindsay's Christmas Tree Saga. The memory of what happened today is just too traumatizing to relive so soon and I'm in a very fragile place at the moment.

Also it's 12:30 and I walked around a tree farm for 3 hours today so I'm spent.

Since I know how incredibly difficult it's going to be for all of you to wait, I will give you a hint as to how it ends:

it's not pretty.