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“The funny thing is, we’re not drunk,” said Gillian. And she’s right, they’re not. But there’s a kind of intoxication from being the most beautiful girls in town, from riding in a truck bed and singing your favorite songs with your best girlfriends, from knowing, deep in your bones, that you belong here.
The decade-long journey of an American Christmas tree
OREGON — On a cool spring day in 2004, a chicken in Oregon pooped. Ten years later, you strap a Christmas tree to the roof of your car.
The span between that hen and your living room is filled with a decade-long process to plant, grow, harvest and ship one of 6.4 million Christmas trees reaped each year from Oregon’s Willamette Valley, the Christmas tree capital of the world. In this green and grey state, Christmas trees outnumber humans 12 to one.
We are a monolithic block, each and every one dedicated to premarital sex, hedonism, socialism, white wine, and tweeting about misogyny.
We yowl day and night about unequal pay. “Seven cents for every dollar,” we screech sleepily as we wake up alone every morning, our one-night-stand having beat a hasty exit at 3:45 a.m. “I am Leaning In and crushing the patriarchy,” we reassure ourselves while feeding the cat. “Lilly… Ledbetter…” we whisper to ourselves as we frown at men.
But if pinkeye is my diving bell, then sunglasses are my butterfly. You see, sunglasses are the pink-eyed's natural ally, our strongest protector, our patron saint.
At around 9:45 on Saturday evening, I was hoping that the floor of the Eola Hills Wine Cellars barrel room might open up and I would fall to the center of the earth. Down, down, down, to a place where there were no crying 10-year-olds, a place where people weren't watching me, a place where I'd not agreed to be the "celebrity" guest "fencer" at the Aldo Nadi Casino Night fundraiser.