We finally got our Christmas tree up but, as I write this, we are recouping with cups of hot cider and a box of Band-Aids. We’ve also started to speak to each other again, although we’re using very short sentences.
It started when we got the Christmas tree out of storage. I know that sounds simple enough, but I could probably sell tickets to the event because it always resembles one of those wrestling matches in the old movies, where the smoky crowd boos and screams, "Pound him! Twist ‘im into a pretzel!"
I’m convinced men and Christmas trees have a unique, if not complex, natural relationship that goes way back to historic woodsmen and their axes. Nature has a long memory you know, but that wouldn’t explain why a fake tree would give my husband so much trouble. Perhaps it contains just enough wood product to recall an ancient animosity, and that’s what makes it want to take my husband to the mat every year.
Round One of the match begins with my husband trying to put the tree in the trunk of the car. Unfortunately, last January we simply tied the two sections together and left the electric cords connected because we knew they would be more trouble to put back together if we took them apart. So the sections were separate, but couldn’t really be separated. We had also wrapped them in an old fitted sheet and wound it with one of those yellow plastic construction ribbons that says "caution" in big black letters. We should have heeded the warning.
This year it took the two of us to half-carry, half-drag the bulky, awkward package to the car, because it was so unwieldy. Of course it wouldn’t fit into the trunk and, instead, lolled all over the place, half in, and half out. My husband tried what looked to me like a camel clutch, then a half nelson, eventually resorting to threats. In the course of placing various holds, he called the tree lots of things, and not one of them came even close to, "O Tannenbaum."
Round Two began with getting the tree out of the car, into the house and actually standing up in the family room. First, we couldn’t get the bottom section into the tree stand because the top section kept flopping around and knocking my husband in the head. Then the top refused to fit into the slot in the bottom section and everything fell apart. It wobbled, it resisted, and by then he was yelling at the tree and we were yelling at each other. I could imagine a bloodthirsty audience roaring, "That’s right – make him beg for mercy!"
I have to be honest. I wouldn’t do any better than my husband when it comes to managing a seven-foot tree. In fact, I would do a lot worse. The tree would no doubt have me pinned within thirty seconds, my limbs flailing from beneath it, giving it the appearance of having arms and legs.
At least our tree is finally up, lit and decorated, and it only tilts a few degrees northwest. We can’t figure what’s causing that, but we’re not about to fiddle with it since we’ve had trees collapse as a result of too much fussing. I don’t think anyone will notice that the ornaments appear to be hanging at a little bit of an angle.
Unfortunately, Round Three is looming. That occurs after New Year’s, when we take the tree down and put it back in storage. I’m not looking forward to the fight and can already hear my imaginary crowd jeering, "Toss him into the ropes! Teach him a good lesson!"
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