Oh, to Be a Tree

When my family moved in, I was just about as tall as Artie. He was a little over a year old.


In April '05, I was up to about shoulder height. See me in the back there? Life was good, except when Fred played gynecologist and whacked at my roots with a shovel. He said it was for my own good and that he'd give me a little trim later, but he never did. Sheesh. I lifted my skirt for nothing.







Last week, I decided it was time for a change. No more hanging out in the backyard getting my nether regions thumped with the lawnmower for me. I'm going on vacation.







I called enterprise and they picked me up. Then they squeezed me through this tiny door like a delivery room surprise. Boy, I'm glad I don't have to give birth. Look at the sweat popping out on this guy's forehead. Next time I'm requesting pick up by the cabana boy in cutoffs.







First stop, the spa. I've been hearing that Brazilians are all the rage, so I signed right up. Everything just feels so much cleaner and smooooooth.







Cabana boy decided he finally had time for that haircut. Just a little off the top, and maybe some lipo on my waist, I told him.







Mrs was nervous and trying not to be too psychotic on the couch.


After all, if anyone knows about bad hair, it's her. (circa 7th grade)





And then, (oh, the indignity) they hauled me back outside like yesterday's leftovers and hosed me. Hosed Me. Then left me outside in the cold overnight because I was too wet to come in. (Like it was my fault)

Well, here I am in all my splendour. I'm ginormous and huge and take over the front room but I've never felt so beautiful in my life.

Oh, it's good to be a tree.