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For the past eight winters, I've sold Christmas trees in the Twin Cities.  Part of my job on the Christmas tree lot includes delivering and setting up Christmas trees.  Here is an inside look into the absurd world of holiday decorating.

"My Christmas tree smells like pickles," the irate customer barks into the phone.  "Like!  Pickles!"

"Excuse me?"  I reply, holding the phone away from my ear.

 "Yesterday I bought a Christmas tree from your tree lot.  Now it smells like pickles!"  Pause.  "Christmas trees are not supposed to smell like pickles."  Pause.  "I'm having a holiday party tomorrow!  Important people will be here...very... important... people.  You need to bring me a Christmas tree that doesn't smell like pickles!  Right!  Now!"

"OK," I sheepishly say.  "We'll bring one right over."

I load up a gorgeous 10' Fraser Fir (they don't smell at all) as a replacement and drive to the mansion in the posh Rolling Green neighborhood of Edina.  I ask my coworker Kristin to accompany me because her quick smile and folksy accent can disarm any disgruntled customer.

The home owner is waiting for us on the front step.  "Oh, my god!" The plump lady bemoans, waving a diamond studded hand in front of her nose.  "It's the worst thing I've ever smelled in my life."

"We are sooooo sorry," Kristin warmly apologizes. 

The home owner nervously opens the front door.  We are instantly blasted in the face with the pungent smell of asparagus piss.  Every room (and there are lots of them) emanates the bitter stench.  Kristin and I put a large plastic bag around the rancid 10' tree, pick it up, and carry it out like a Christmas carcass.  The tree is a Noble Fir, a beautiful evergreen tree from Washington State, beloved by fashionistas, Hollywood celebrities, and design hounds for its tiers of sturdy branches and Kelly green color.   But what Martha Stewart won't tell you is that Noble Firs have a tendency to sour if exposed to sub zero temps. And the tree has clearly soured.  Kristin gags as we heave the rotten tree corpse "Sopranos" style into the truck.  We replace the tree with the non smelling Fraser and get the hell out of there.

An hour later, I'm sent out on a routine Christmas tree delivery and set up.  It's a small tree, so I drive solo to a mansion on Lake of the Isles parkway.  I ring the door bell of the mansion and the home owner meets me at the door.  The man is wearing a classic red and black flannel jacket, blue jeans, brand new Red Wing work boots, and an Elmer Fudd hat.  He looks like a living L.L Bean catalogue.      

"I would like to help you," the home owner says with child like eagerness.

"No problem," I say calmly.      

I go ahead and give the tree a fresh cut.  The home owner helps me haul the tree into the mansion's solarium.  It is 4 degrees outside, but it is hot as Honduras in the solarium.  I'm wearing Patagonia long underwear, thermal long sleeve shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, and insulated Carhart pants.  I instantly start sweating my ass off.  I can barely breathe it's so hot.  Steam is billowing out of my collar so bad that my sun glasses fog over.

I hoist the tree into the stand.  The home owner is still extremely eager to help me, so he stands and holds the tree straight.  Then I get down on my stomach underneath the Christmas tree to tighten the bolts on the tree stand.  The man's entire family comes into the solarium to watch me work. 

I look up and the man's crotch is directly in my face.  I move over a few feet to avoid being tea-bagged.  As I shift over to tighten a different bolt, the man's crotch follows me.  I'm underneath the tree and cannot escape his crotch.  His crotch is so close to my head, it gives a whole new meaning to the word mistletoe.  The home owner spastically moves this way and that way to line up the tree, shaking his junk in my face like some sort of Macarena dancer.

Then the family starts chirping in about how the tree looks.  "It needs to go to the left...and more towards the wall...turn it more to the right...can you turn it?  It needs to be straightened."

The entire time I work, the man keeps thrusting his bulge in my face.  Then I make the horrible realization that I can smell Old Spice cologne.  And it ain't coming from me.  Yuck.  We finally get the tree straight.  I stagger sweaty and depleted back to my truck.  It's a full on walk-of-shame.

For the next Christmas tree delivery and set up, I bring my coworker John "Big Mac" McCambridge along.  McCambridge is a former collegiate linebacker and a bear of a man.  With my surly appearance and his 200 pounds and giant red beard, we look like a repo crew.  This, in fact, is exactly what we are.  We are sent out to the house to remove a Christmas tree that the home owner has killed.

We rap on the front door.  A caretaker lets us in.  She gives us a sympathetic look, holding out plastic booties in her hand.

"You need to take off your boots," the caretaker says softly, "and put these on over your socks."

We begrudgingly do it and make our way through the immaculate house to evict the negligent tree.  As we enter a large living room, a man and a woman stand silently on either side of the dead Christmas tree.  The tree is crispy; the branches are brittle, and a pile of brown needles covers the hard wood floor.   It's the Grinch's Christmas tree.  The man and woman stare angrily at each other, ready to strike like two Wild West gunslingers squared off on a dusty street.

"He killed the tree.  Can you believe it?"  The woman screeches, firing the first shot in a real life holiday version of the War of the Roses.  McCambridge and I stand there stone faced.  What the hell are we going to say?  The woman turns towards us.  "He filled the tree stand with bleach!  Can you believe it?  Bleach!"

"I heard that it opens the veins of the tree!"  The man says, looking at us for assistance.

"You killed our tree!"

"Oh, come on.  Hey guys," the man says looking at us, "You ever heard of putting bleach in with the water to help the tree take up more water?"

We remain stone faced. 

"Nope," McCambridge says with a deep voice, ending our involvement in their marital disagreement.

"So...can we take the tree?  We have your replacement in the truck," I say, offering somewhat of a peace accord.

We wrap the tree in large plastic bag and haul it out.  We give their new tree a fresh cut and put it into the stand.

"Give it some warm water to start," I suggest to the man.

"You ever heard of putting 7-Up in with the water to help the tree," he responds. 

I don't take the bait.  "Just warm water to start."  Pause.  "Have a good holiday, sir."

"Yeah, right," he says, rolling his eyes.