Sometimes It's Hard to Let Go

I'm sitting on the sofa and gazing at our Christmas tree, lit up and still looking practically perfect in every way.

The tree, that is.

Well, I was gazing, but then Buddy got up and hopped off the sofa and I thought I spied, um, something brown protruding from his backside, and I shrieked, and grabbed him and tried to take a look, and could not find his, um, waste opening, because he's so furry, and after several more attempts, I tried to hoist the poor thing up for Flutterbug to take a look, and she couldn't see a thing because she was laughing so hard she was crying, and poor Buddy was getting pretty irritated, and soon we were all roaring and crying, and now all my makeup is rubbed off into my eyes and I can't see a thing either.

Ok. Tree.

I bought something I had heard advertised on the radio: Wilt-Pruf. You spray it on plants, living or dead, and it holds in the moisture. I sprayed it on the all the greenery decorating the church, and on the poinsettas on the altar table, and on the big wreath I bought on clearance at Lowe's a week before Christmas, and on the tree.

You're supposed to spray it on stuff while the stuff is OUTSIDE, which I didn't do, since my tree was already on the INSIDE, and the noxious odor drove me from the living room for quite a while, but it really did its job. I don't think I've lost a single needle off that tree, and I haven't watered it since the party on the 19th.

It's a lot easier to take down the tree when it looks all pitiful, and half of it is already on the floor.

Plus, it STILL SMELLS WONDERFULLY PINEY.

I feel a little like the Dread Pirate Roberts when I turn off the tree lights before going to bed:

"Good night, Tree. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning."

I know it's not alive, but when it smells alive and looks alive, it's a little bit hard to let go.

Not to mention the fact that it'll be a big hassle to yank off all those ornaments and drag the thing out the door.

I wonder what it would take to bribe Flutterbug to take everything off the tree. I think she's finally too old to be enticed by a slice of cheese. But maybe if it's pasteurized-part-skim-process-cheese-food with a plastic wrapper to peel off...

We used to call her Cheese-Head when she was little.

I wonder if she's related to Wallace, you know, the Brit with the dog named Gromit, and the major penchant for cheese of any kind. She does walk around with her hands up, palms out, and fingers wiggling. And she's got those big eyes. Of course, her dog isn't quite as bright.

So maybe I'll try cheese...but, then again, maybe I'll give it another day. Or two. Or ten.