But I’m not talking just private parts, people.  I’m talking ANYTHING.  Take, for example, a simple Christmas tree, and an innocuous comment about how last year’s six foot tree wasn’t quite tall enough for our vaulted ceilings.  In the same conversation, I’m pretty sure the words “eight feet would be nice” were mentioned.  But I could be wrong.  Because hubby did not come back with an eight footer. Or even a niner.

No, he proudly proclaimed, “I got the BIGGEST ONE on the lot–what do you think?” with a goofy smile on his face. 

What I think is that the twelve foot green monstrosity dwarfs our entire living room.  And sheds like an SOB.  We’re going to have to fork over some serious cash to buy about a billion more lights to deck it out, and that goes double for ornaments.  Also, the tree skirt is not remotely large enough to go all the way around that sucker, and I’m afraid if it tips like last year’s tree in the Fergie incident, the resulting quake will be read on the Richter scale up in San Francisco.

On the plus side, it does smell super piney–always a good thing when you’re trying to mask the not so fresh “my dog peed on the carpet while I was in Chicago for Thanksgiving” odor.  Especially when you just hosted Bunco at your house.  And regrettably, the theme was “holiday pajama party”, not “boarding kennel brouhaha”, so eau de doggy bladder would most likely not have been a big hit.

But the biggest problem I’m having with the giant Christmas tree?  Well, I can’t think of anything that rhymes with “ginormous”.  See, I tend to make up little ditties all the time in my head, and this one, if you’ll pardon the pun, is stumping me. 

So pretty please–if you can come up with a second line for “Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree, why are you so gi-normous?”—my brain would be eternally grateful.