Sins of Christmas Past

I've been very bad in not giving credit where a great deal of credit is due, to a number of men for heroic efforts of Christmases past -- from many years gone by. Excuse my sins and let me make amends.

I've suddenly got a whole new appreciation this year for all the hell all the guys (father, brother, boyfriends, husbands) in my life must have gone through putting up the Christmas tree and keeping the damned thing filled with water. On this last point, I'm am clearly an amateur and find my dangerous forays under the tree to fill it with water are no fun at all. I end up with an early morning beehive hairdo full of pine needles and a few dangerous jabs from low branches in the head, and a few near pokes in the eye, truly frightening, but I have so far managed to dodge anything requiring a trip to the emergency room.

Still, this tree seems to drink water like a ... well, not a fish I suppose ... but like a very thirsty Christmas tree. It's shocking to me. I hate finding it dry and then having to get the courage, once more, to weasel under the tree and lamely attempt to tip a pitcher of water into the holder, wetting the nearby presents if I'm not careful, surely soaking the rug (the damage I'll only witness come the new year) and worrying I'll electrocute myself with one false move where twinkly lights and water mix with disasterous results.

This, sadly, must fall into that category of all the loathsome tasks women have gotten into the habit of expecting men to do with little thanks. Spider killing, tire changing and tree watering are no one's idea of a good time, so I send out a deep thanks to all you guys for doing this general janitorial work with a nod, a "yes, mam" and an enormous amount of unthanked generosity. Consider yourselves thanked.