Oh, converter of carbon dioxide, emitter of oxygen; rife with all manner of positive symbolism such as growth, life, and knowledge. They’re genuinely nature’s good guy.
Until Christmastime, that is, when regular ole evergreens transform into seasonal symbols eliciting spirited debates. That’s when the Douglas fir really starts to fly, and away we go in a manger.
Like so many insidious instruments of divisiveness it goes by many ambiguous names; however, no matter which way you cut it down—whether you call it a Yule tree, a Christmas tree, or a Holiday tree—it is, most assuredly, a Tree of Controversy.
When I was growing up a Christmas tree was just a Christmas tree. The majority of the people I knew who celebrated Christmas had a pine of some sort that was a version of our own slightly spindly, tinsel-enhanced tree. (The rich folks had flocked trees, the 70’s debuting the daring pink-flocked conifer.)
Absent a tree, there might have been a menorah or some other cultural talisman for the season, and there wasn’t much ado being made about the “having” or the “not having” of a Christmas tree.
Nevertheless, to quote that iconic song by The Byrds, “The Times They Are A-Changin”—fast and furious, may I add—to the point that it now seems like there is NO cultural practice in possession of immunity in terms of public commentary.
To summarize the political hullabaloo that rages on each year: It seems several people have had their mellow harshed when other citizens “force” them to gaze upon a Christmas tree when it’s so not their thing.
Therefore, the Christmas tree has become a non-deciduous symbol of incitement. We have a version of this in our family, but it’s not so much about having a tree as it is about what type of tree we’ll display.
To summarize the domestic hullabaloo: It seems several family members have had their mellow harshed when other family members “force” them to gaze upon a type of Christmas tree that is so not their thing. (Think the Douglas/Fraser/Balsam fir versus the Blue/Norway/White spruce versus the Scotch/White/Virginia pine.)
When we do finally settle on the appropriate type of tree, we encounter the next lightning rod of controversy centering around choosing the perfect specimen. During this process, our family uses technical terms like “bushy” and “branchy” when communicating our desires and expectations, which apply to our prospective tree.
Whether we adopt the aforementioned bushy or branchy oxygen-producer is dependent upon who won the rock-paper-scissors contest for that year. In any case one thing is for certain. No matter what, we will acquire a tree that is much too tall and way too wide for our domicile.
This means my husband needs to prune the tree before it can assume the vertical position in our living room. Thus, he steps into his annual non-Nativity-related holiday role of Edward Scissorhands, slicing away until there’s more tree on the floor than will find its way into the stand.
No matter, the end result is the evergreen is now lofty, poised, and looks as though it was meant for its special corner.
This whole photosynthesizing symbol of joy and unity that is the Christmas tree as part of our holiday tradition is a lot like childbirth.
I seem to remember only the joy of the result, not the pain… until the next time.
For more of Diane’s brand of sit-down standup humor, she’s now got a podcast: 💉BANGS ‘N’ BOTOX: Women Who Wear Aging Well✂️for your listening pleasure.🎧LinkedIn Podcast Page➡️https://bit.ly/4mcsyng
Do those two words make you as nervous as they do me, along with other sweat-inducing paired words like tax audit, root canal, and test results?
Whenever I receive a jury duty notice my reaction is more “accused felon fixing to be arrested,” than prospective juror being asked to fulfill her civic duty. Reading any document with the word “summons” in it will do that to you, I guess.
Fortunately, my initial nervousness turned into a solid commitment to participate in the judicial process for one very important reason.
Because I had to.
In my county, jury duty kicks off with a phone call the night before. After 5:00 p.m. other citizens like me madly dial into the number we’ve been given to confirm we need to show up the next day. The line was busy when I called in, so I just kept redialing as though I was trying to win concert tickets to a sold-out Dua Lipa show. (Points for pop culture relevance?)
When I finally got through, instead of coveted tickets my prize was confirmation I was needed to show up the next morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp. The jury trial was on. That meant I needed to put together a sharp outfit that looked like I was headed to work, and not a work-out, the latter being my go-to attire. Off I went to access my closet’s smart casual wardrobe offerings. It took seconds to make my selection from my current stock.
The next morning I left with plenty of time to spare. Good thing because getting into the courthouse proved a bit trickier than I had anticipated. My immediate goal became finding and securing a parking space that wasn’t labeled, “County Employee Only,” “No Parking Between the Hours of 6:00 a.m. and midnight,” or “Not For You.”
At one point I procured what I thought was an extraordinary parking space. It was under a tree with lots of room on either side, and walking distance to the courthouse, “thought” being the operative word.
It was only when I activated my door lock, hearing the satisfying, “Beep! Beep” that I happened to glance over and notice some writing on the cement block to which I had nicely lined up my front bumper. As I sashayed on over to take a closer look I noticed “Jury Commissioner” emblazoned on the marker. Uh-oh. I’d have to give myself quite a promotion to make that work, so I moved my car. Immediately.
Because I had to.
As I approached the courthouse I was faced with a dishearteningly long line, heralding the vigorous use of a metal detector, x-ray machine, and a manual search of all bags. Usually, I don’t even wait in line for things I want, let alone jury duty, but I waited.
Because I had to.
As the earth spun on its axis one more entire revolution I stood there. As luck would have it, I was sandwiched between a woman who had stopped by just to let everyone know she wasn’t able to perform her civic duty because she was sick with an extremely contagious case of something-or-other and a gentleman who was just darned excited to be there, even though his digestive problems usually kept him from such outings. This provided me with other things to think about than long lines.
While the length of my wait created reasonable doubt I would ever cross the courthouse threshold, eventually I did. The woman who checked me in even pronounced my name correctly, so things were looking up.
As I settled in for the wait with my new book I’d purchased just for this occasion, my contentment was short-lived. This is because I found myself re-reading multiple pages due to the clerk calling out new potential juror names at regular intervals.
(That’s when I realized this situation was just begging to be turned into a humor column, so I grabbed my handy-dandy purse notebook and got busy.)
In no time at all—about two hours if you enjoy specifics—we were released for a twenty-minute break. That’s when I scored a rich, frothy latté, the only problem being it took me nineteen minutes to get it. When I skidded into the courtroom the bailiff took one look at my cup of joe, shook his head “no,” and that’s when I gulped down the lava-like liquid in seconds, destroying numerous tastebuds in the process.
Because I had to.
It was the afternoon, and we were now fully in the throes of jury selection. The mostly washed masses sat attentively as the judge attempted to determine who was best suited for the juror job. This commenced with what would turn out to be the most painful question and answer sequence I had ever witnessed since my father quizzed my first date about his intentions.
This segment might have gone quicker, if not for the judge’s contentious question he asked of a woman who was clearly in possession of a philosophy degree: “Do you feel you can be a fair and impartial juror?”
Hello, and break out the bedrolls. A seemingly simple query isn’t so simple when broken down and parsed out by a deep thinker with a flair for sentence parsing. This was one complex little ask from her perspective, and I was forced to live that perspective for a good 10 minutes.
Because I had to.
Finally, the judge put all of us out of our misery when he told her it probably would be best if she took a pass on this particular proceeding. When she was dismissed I heard a collective sigh of relief throughout the courtroom as the air began circulating again.
The proceedings proceeded. One juror after another was excused with a few exceptions.
The real estate lady who everybody in town knew and respected was asked to step down—and out—of the jury box. The zealous older man with whom I had shared line time got to stay. The woman who proudly proclaimed her marriage to the sheriff barely got the chance to put her purse down when she was excused.
As the process dragged on, I began to think 12 jurors really were too many. Couldn’t we be just as efficient with eight?
Finally, the last seat sat vacant. We all sat stock still. Breathing became labored and perhaps even briefly non-existent. One of us would have to fill that seat and it felt as though it was the electric chair, rather than an opportunity for public service.
I heard a name called. Not a female name. So, not me. It was a male name. Or as I like to think of it, it was my new, very favorite name. No one objected to him, the way he dressed, what he had for breakfast, or his career choice.
I stepped out into the sunshine a free woman. Unlike high school basketball, I was happy not to be chosen. As I made my way out of the courtroom, I expressed my exhilaration by doing the touchdown dance in front of the bailiff.
🎯 My overarching daily S.M.A.R.T. goals consist of using a big word that temporarily raises my IQ by a few points, searching for the perfect dipping-in-my-coffee cookie, and growing my hair out.
I’m grateful I can still pursue that latter goal. I certainly don’t want to be like one of the Zeds in Dr. Seuss’s One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, in possession of only one hair on my head. 🐟
💇♀️ The truth of the matter is I care about how my hair looks. If I’m not having a grand hair day, then I’m unlikely to be having a grand day. Are you the same way?
I’m not superficial — said all of us superficial people — but I like having hair that’s long enough to twist around my finger as I contemplate the great problems of our time. Things like, why isn’t “internet” spelled with an “e” instead of an “I” since we’re entering the internet to use it? And then, why is the font size on the back of potentially dangerous medicines in terms of taking too much of the aforementioned medicine so teeny-tiny? 🤔
In addition to assisting me with contemplation, my hair is crucial in the navigation of this whole aging dealio. It helps me ignore most of what I see in the mirror🪞 — fine lines, not-so-fine lines, cavernous pores, and unsightly spots that can’t be classified as beauty marks.
How? I just look at my hair. That’s my focal point. 🔎
🪄I like having hair with highlights I call racing stripes laid over no less than three available colors — blonde, red, brown — and this special sauce is crafted especially for me by my hair magician.
It’s hair to stay.
😂 Let me tell you, I’ve had so many comeuppances and moments of hair-larity because of the importance of my follicles. These have fueled plenty of humorous writings and performances. I have one for you today that’s a cut above the rest.
[Oh boy, how many puns is that? “Is there a limit on these things,” you might be asking? Let me answer. “If only. It seems I’m on a roll(er).” 🙄]
Psssttt. Come closer. Let me tell you a secret.
My previously dark brown, auburn-tinged, natural mane began going white when I was in my thirties. That gorgeous new red hue I welcomed along with my first child was my hair’s pigment, letting me know it was on the way out. That’s when I decided I would dye my own hair and — gasp! — I used boxed dye.
⌛Let us now go back, back, back in time as this story is from when I began my teaching career in 1902. All right, the year was nineteen ninety-two or thereabouts. ⌛
It was the summer of my discon-tint. (Okay, it was fall.) The school year had just begun. 🏫
I had the best of intentions, wanting to motivate and inspire teenagers to reach new heights in their educational journey. The truth of the matter is they often inspired me to reach new heights in discovering how patient I can be.
You see, high school kids aren’t actually in class to learn things like math, English, and science. That’s an opinion held only by those who have never taught adolescents. This includes politicians who have hair-brained ideas that should continue swimming around aimlessly in the think tank from which they hailed. Oh, no, my friend.
The real student motivators are to challenge, argue, and cajole. In short, they’re lawyers-in-training. No detail escapes their notice, nor commentary. ⚖️
As teachers, we get away with nothing, though we plan for everything. At no time was this more apparent to me than when I experienced a hair coloring crisis. This is when DIY should stand for, “Doing It, Y?!” as more of a question than a cute acronymic statement representing self-sufficiency.
After breaking a brush, a nail, and my heart, the mirror told me what I didn’t want to know: My new hair color was an epic fail. 🏳️The shade I had created was not to be found in nature nor in any reputable hairdresser’s shop. It could best be described as Joan Jett black with a bit of a Ronald McDonald clown red providing an eerie glow.
No matter. I was out of hair dye and time. It was now Monday Eve. Because creating the wrong hair color isn’t exactly covered by sick leave, what choice did I have? I had to head back to my classes where no less than 150 students would provide me with their unsolicited opinion. Maybe my hideous hue wasn’t as bad as I thought it was?
Hope was in the hair. 🙏
On Monday I floated in on a breeze of peroxide with just a slight hint of grapefruit conditioning treatment. It smelled rather like Florida when the snowbirds arrive, I would imagine. I was wearing one of my favorite outfits from what I call my Johnny Cash collection because I was dressed head-to-toe in black. I figured this would help me arrive like an educational ninja, stealthy, but prepared to educate. 🖤
As I walked to the front of the classroom, I was primed and ready to impart wisdom, knowledge, and even courage. The latter would be referring to me.
We were in a career unit, so I launched into a passionate description about how their English class could help them get where they wanted to go in their lives. I gave a detailed accounting of jobs that could be had, dreams that could be realized, and mysteries that could be solved.🌟
🎓This was capped off by telling my captive audience how I would go on to major in English and how that degree had unleashed a veritable floodgate of opportunity. I had them. They were all looking at me.
I savored the moment as I took a sip of my lukewarm coffee I had made at o-dark-hundred that morning. ☕As a teacher these are the moments I live for.
🙋♂️Heartened by a waving hand in the right quadrant of the room, I wasn’t even thinking about my hair-tastrophe when my student asked, “Uh, yeah, dude, has anyone ever told you, you look like that Elvira, mistress-of-the-darkness lady?”
Much guffawing ensued and I logged in yet another lost opportunity in public education when my intention didn’t even get anywhere near the mark.
P.S. Yes, my students often call me dude for some reason.
Before the last school bell of the day finished ringing, I traveled to a fine purveyor of fine hair products for my fine hair. I knew what I had to do to correct my color. It was the same advice I gave myself at the end of every teaching day. Lighten up!
The next day, I ventured back into my classroom, fairly confident of my new, much lighter shade. I felt ready. The operative word in that sentence is “felt.”
This educational interlude found me proposing the possibility that poor punctuation is perilous, almost as perilous as endless alliteration. Immediately a hand shot up before I could even finish going through my notes for their notes. I was nervous, but this time it was a fellow female of the species.
🙋♀️Surely she — wearer of aqua-tinged hair — would empathize with me about being judged on the basis of hair color. Was it my imagination or did a hush fall over the room? The kind that usually presents itself when I bellow out, “Who threw the spitball that landed in my coffee mug?”
She cleared her throat and asked earnestly, “Yeah, so I was wondering, has anyone ever told you, you look like that Home Improvement mom?”
Oh, progress. Thy name is Patricia Richardson also known as “Home Improvement mom.”
At least I like her hair color.
👽 🏡 Sidebar. I still get asked by oldsters and youngsters alike if I’m either Pam Dawber from Mork ’N’ Mindy or Patricia Richardson from Home Improvement. I’ve been out at various restaurants, bars, and stores when people ask if they can have their picture taken with me. I try to tell them I’m not who they think I am, but it doesn’t matter. They’re convinced. I’m happy to participate in the shared fantasy. Never underestimate the power of syndication in keeping the fans of beloved shows solidly engaged for decades to come.
🤩 Fun Fact. I tackled this same hair-rowing topic in 🎙️Episode4️⃣ of BANGS ’N’ BOTOX: Women Who Wear Aging Well. Listen in for lots ‘o’ laughs, MORE hair puns, and “Oh, no, wait, what?” moments that go to aging well by having F-U-N.
Diane Dean-Epps, Writer 