It’s beginning to smell a lot like Christmas … but not in my
house. We have a fake tree. And while a fake tree has its
advantages, smell is not one of them. And apparently my family
misses the smell of a freshly slaughtered pine tree dying in our
living room.
It’s beginning to smell a lot like Christmas … but not in my house. We have a fake tree. And while a fake tree has its advantages, smell is not one of them. And apparently my family misses the smell of a freshly slaughtered pine tree dying in our living room.
It’s not my fault we have a fake tree. It’s my husband Harry’s. Look, the man is an engineer – and the stereotype about engineers being anal retentive about safety and all kinds of other nerdy things fits Harry. So I’ve had years of his safety rules regarding dying pine trees in the living room.
There were rules about how long the tree could be lit and when it could be lit and how close candles could be to the tree and how high the heater could be to stop the tree from turning into a crispy critter and rules about the tree being lit when nobody was home … and honestly, the tree turned out to be an 11-foot tall pain in the butt.
So I got a fake one. There are no more heater rules or candle rules and I can leave it lit all darned day if I want. And I do. I turn the lights on the minute I get up in the morning and they stay lit all day and most of the night. It’s great.
But while the fake tree glows, it doesn’t really smell. Oh sure, there’s a faint mustiness that vaguely smells like the garage where it’s stored the rest of the year – but for the most part, our tree just hangs out in the living room, scentless.
And it drives my family insane. Every night there’s a complaint about the lack of dying pine tree aroma. In fact, they say it doesn’t feel like Christmas in our house. What the heck are they thinking? You can’t walk through the stupid house without running into a Santa or a dang blinking, red-nosed reindeer. There are presents stacked under the fake tree. And they’re REAL presents, for pete’s sake. We’ve got lights everywhere. How on earth can it not feel like Christmas? It’s not possible.
But according to two-thirds of my family, it isn’t Christmas until you smell it.
I don’t know how that works. I mean, the two-thirds of my family questioning our Christmas spirit is male. And let’s be honest here, males are not known for their olfactory persnickityness. I know this for a fact. I’ve seen at least one of them try to light their “Christmas spirit” on fire. And that’s no way to bring joy to the world, trust me.
But I am “Super Christmas Mom,” bringer of holiday cheer to all who enter our home. So I set about trying to bring the scents of the season indoors. I bought a package of potpourri at Wal-Mart. I dumped it into a big bowl in the living room and waited for it to fill the room with the scent of decaying pine.
Nothing. Not one teeny, little scent wafted at me. After a few days of waiting for it to smell, I dumped it in the trash. I’m not certain, but I think the garbage guy thanked me that day. Seems our can was a little smelly and the scentless potpourri just freshened it right up.
Now the garbage guy was happy – but our house still didn’t reflect the odor of the season. So I got the little pine-scented tree thingy I hang on the rearview mirror of my car and hid it on the tree. I thought it smelled nice. Junior and Harry walked in the door and gagged. Said it smelled like the inside of a 1957 Buick that people had been having a gas – er, Christmas spirit – passing contest in.
So I did what any other super mom would do. The next day, I brought out the big gun. The olfactory version of an army tank. I got the bathroom spray out. Hey, it smells like pine. I sprayed it liberally around the tree and waited for the comments.
And there weren’t any. Yes, that’s right, Harry and Junior never said a word. They didn’t say it smelled good or bad in the house. There was no gagging. No complaints about a lack of Christmas spirit.
So now you know that in my family, the true spirit of Christmas isn’t in the tree or the gifts or the lights. It’s having your home smell like the inside of a public restroom.
Laurie Sontag is a Gilroy writer and mom who wishes parenthood had come with instructions. Her column is syndicated. She can be reached at
la****@la**********.com
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