How long until the Christmas tree can just be considered to be up really early? I mean, it’s a new year. Christmas 2013 may be a long way away, but Christmas 2012 was last year. I’ve just got a jump start.

I have this really loud laugh. Gail calls it a cackle. My guys compare it to the sound of a dolphin. It’s my dad’s laugh. Fucking bastard. I say that in jest. I love my daddy.

Guy in bar: “I love your laugh.”
Me: drunk and aware that this is a line “Really? Because no one else does.”

Twice this week, I’ve laughed loudly and uncontrollably in restaurants. Both times have been with Gail and about things that we shouldn’t discuss in public.

discussing anal sex, which I’ve told Gail she only likes because it “makes her grandma cry”/is tabboo
Gail: “You know… the thing that makes my granny sob.”
Me: “You call it your granny?”

This lead to maniacal giggling and disgusting jokes about how you could create euphamisms for not having sex, such as “My grandma has a nose bleed.”

The second time was at McDonald’s. Both of us are nervous about this country’s future and I was looking up the requirements to move to Canada the other day. Gail talked about it as well, because we’re oddly attached to one another.

Me: “I highly doubt I’ll ever move that far from Gail and if she moves away, I imagine I’ll follow and I don’t care if everyone in the family thinks I’m a lesbian because of it.”
Dad: “Hey, I don’t care either way.”

My redneck daddy told me he doesn’t care if I’m a lesbian. Awwww. I mean, I’m not, but still…

So, I told Gail that Americans always say “I’m moving to Canada” as a threat (not so much me, as I’m actually intersted in Canada), because we’re stupid. It’s  apparently really difficult to move to Canada.

Me: “I imagine if I wanted to, I might be able to get a visa based on my education, which is apparently a thing. Otherwise, I’d have to find a job where they want me badly enough to go through the trouble to help me get a work visa.”
Gail: “Which means it would be really difficult for me to work for their postal service.”

(I’d like to interrupt to clarify that we’re not packing our bags for Canada. We come up with these schemes all the time. We’ve already moved to North Carolina, Colorado, Oregon, and New Zealand in our heads.)

Me: “Not necessarily. You see, I was thinking, gay marriage might be legal in Canada. They’ll allow you to move there with a spouse. So… I move to Canada and then…”
Gail: “I think I would rather stay here under The Regime than be your wife.”
Me: “Come on. It’s not like we have to be practicing lesbians. We’d just be lesbians on paper. Marry me, eh.”

Then Gail tore the corner off some trash and gave it to me like a ring, as she once had a dream where her ex-boyfriend proposed to her that way and I make fun of her for it all the time. She then told me that she thinks that vaccinations are possibly just the United States government running experiments on us and she’s aware that she’s completely paranoid, but still. I interrupted her for my faux crying panic impersonation of her.

Me: mock hyperventilating “Oh, my gosh! We didn’t land on the moon! We didn’t land on the moon and now I’m going to have to move to Canada and be your lesbian wife because of it! Do we have to consumate this marriage? Is that even possible with lesbians? Does that even count? How do lesbians even consumate anything?!?!?!”

When we joke around, there’s always this point where we’re giggling like crazy over something that’s not even funny, because we’ve both gone off the deep end. We call this a Rice Cubes moment, not because we’ve ever giggled like maniacs over the phrase, but because we would. Once, when I was heartbroken over some mommy issues, she tried to cheer me up by mentioning this.

text message
Gail: Rice cakes!
Me: Um… I think it was rice cubes.
Gail: Oh. You’re right. I was trying to cheer you up, but I guess that was just a snack.

Surprisingly, that worked.

I’ve been writing this blog on and off through the day while taking breaks from taking down my Christmas tree. At the moment, I’m lying in my living room floor, surrounded by Christmas lights and storage boxes, struggling to type with a Band-Aid on my finger so I don’t get blood on the keyboard. This shit is hard, y’all.

When I put up the Christmas tree, there was a point where it was on the floor in pieces, along with a lot of broken glass. I ended up crying on the couch texting Chad to come help me put it up, because I’d accidentally broken the stand and couldn’t get the new one on. I was pretty pissed that I couldn’t get the tree up on my own. I also knew I’d pay for that glass. But you know what? I got my tree down all by myself. You wouldn’t think that would be empowering, particularly since I injured myself multiple times doing it, (and at one point dropped it on the dog) but I’m still getting the hang of this Solo Woman single girl thing, so I’m pretty fucking proud. One day, I’ll surely find a nice boy to help with my Christmas tree, but on that day, I won’t doubt that I could’ve handled it alone. Go me.

He did not even care.

So I pushed the tree aside and decorated him.