Evergreen Screen, Tinseltown Tannenbaum

Me and 3G have decided to give picture-less posting another try.  Now, usually I use my photos-slash-projects as the basis of my hook.  You know, that thread that, however tenuously, ties all my nonsense together.  So this time -- heads up -- I'm using the pictures in my mind.

Let us consider the Christmas tree.  It's but a pleat in Mother Nature's dark green gown, a relic of the outdoors that we bring indoors and domesticate with acres of lights and ornaments, some store-bought, some handmade, some elegant, some primitive, all of them converging in a joyful jumble that should look ridiculous but doesn't.  Yet even all dressed up, sometimes the Christmas tree misbehaves.  Sometimes it falls, narrowly missing Grandpa as he sleeps off his eggnog; other times it hatches insects and reptiles, reminding us that it's still wild and unpredictable despite our efforts to make it conform to our carefully curated winter wonderlands.  But that's okay.  Because at the end of the (holi)day, it's the crazy that makes it Christmas.

Which is pretty much the message of every Christmas movie ever, including the two I just saw: Daddy's Home 2 and A Bad Moms Christmas.  (See what I did there?  Hook, line, and stinker.) Boys will be boys and girls just want to have fun in these festive family free-for-alls.  No sophomore slumps for these sequels; both assault and then rescue Christmas with all the hijinks and heart we've come to expect from holiday features.  Daddy's Home 2 revisits the blended family blues, this time with a marshmallow of a John Lithgow and a hard-ass Mel Gibson joining Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg to stir the Bailey's-spiked hot chocolate pot.  And in A Bad Moms Christmas, Mila Kunis, Kristen Bell, and Kathryn Hahn take a break from being bad moms to deal with having bad moms, namely the trying trio of Christine Baranski, Cheryl Hines, and Susan Sarandon.  Through criticism, smothering, and good old-fashioned neglect, these mamas serve up fare far worse than fruitcake.  Guess Will Smith was right: parents just don't understand.  Well, at least not until they see the light -- on top of the Christmas tree.  Yep, the very same one harboring larvae and snakes, although no such snafu took place in either movie (but, hey, maybe should have).

You know, the last time I blogged about Daddy's Home, I compared it to Sisters.  And I said (something like) "I liked Daddy's Home better, but Sisters taught me more."  Well, this time I didn't learn anything, and I preferred Bad Moms. Which shows, I think, a modicum of personal growth (because it takes guts to admit that knowledge isn't always power), something our friend the Christmas tree knows lots about.

Oh, Tannenbaum, can't wait to light your candle.

Book Report: Confessions of a Country Architect by Don Metz

Confessions of a Country Architect, by Don Metz, is not the kind of book that I would've picked up on my own.  As you know, I gravitate toward fiction of a bubblegum bent and am not apt to have my head turned by the real-life trials and tribulations of a New England architect.  However, I received the book as a gift and so approached it with a reading-for-reading's sake attitude.   

That perspective served me well.  When you love language, sometimes even a less-than-stellar story can be made enjoyable by good writing.  Fortunately, the architect steering this memoir also happens to be a novelist who can infuse a day at the quarry with excitement.  Yale-educated Metz weaves the highs and lows of his career with funny and sometimes tender client experiences in his fresh account of the road less traveled.  Having abandoned a cushy job in a Connecticut design firm, Metz tells of hanging out his shingle in rural New Hampshire.  Not that there's anything provincial about the sumptuous second homes he designs and describes with unstinting detail.  A self-professed Teuton raised on thrift and practicalities, Metz reveals a deep-seated love for his craft and a kinship with natural surroundings, values that contrast with those of his more worldly fellow architect and friend Lamar:

"Lamar hoped to become a junior partner at SOM within the next five years.  Another ten might see him in charge of overseeing multiple projects and flying around the world selling SOM's services to ambitious clients.  He seemed comfortable with the idea of working at SOM until he retired, as if no other options were feasible.  For the first time since I'd met him, I felt a twinge of pity when I imagined the all-too predictable arc of his life.  Working for a huge organization, fitting in, behaving well, promoting the brand - it all seemed to me like an abdication of freedom."  (Metz 54-55).

After reading that, I thought, "I like this guy."  To be fair, I also wondered if Lamar was offended. 

Not all of Metz's musings are so lofty.  One of his most entertaining anecdotes features a reclusive married female client who seduces the local handyman into running away with her.  Yet another yarn stars a well-meaning couple who urge Metz to hire an English professor-turned-chef to build their dream house, the outcome of which is the proverbial recipe for disaster.  Finally, one of Lamar's ex-girlfriends sets out to win Metz's affections in a sequence faintly reminiscent of the give-and-take between George (Jeremy Sisto) and Dallas (Cheryl Hines) on ABC's "Suburgatory." 

Amusements aside, what compelled me most about Confessions of a Country Architect was Metz's unswerving commitment to his vision.  As cheeseball as it may sound, he followed his heart even though it wasn't easy.  I don't know about you, but I find that Barbie dream house-level inspiring.