I came home from an afternoon of errands and some quiet time writing when it suddenly hit me: it’s January 31st.

So, you might ask? The problem is this: it’s January 31st and I still have the Christmas tree up, tilting in a corner of the living room, waiting for my son to come home from college to pitch it out.

I lost my mind, in that crazy psychotic way that I tend to lose my mind when I do, and since there were no witnesses (having my children witness this kind of meltdown in the past has sent them whispering about me to each other, and possibly, if they read this, to a group message on their phones).

Today’s meltdown happened because I was sick of looking at the stupid tree, and, not having any other recourse, attempted to pull it out by myself.

What was I thinking? It’s an 8 foot dried up tree. I’m a 5″7 chubby middle-aged momma.

Tree 1 — Momma 0

I was not going to have that. No. No way. So I took matters into my own hands. There’s a small chainsaw in the garage. How hard could it be to use? I’ve seen my husband and my son wave it around and bring down trees.

I can do that. I’m sure Helen Reddy was singing a chorus or two in my mind when I had that bright idea. The plan was to hack the tree in half, and haul off two manageable sections. That didn’t happen.

Tree 2 — Momma 0

What did happen was slightly reminiscent of that time I went skiing down the Zugspitze on my face. Then, I had snow in my underwear from sliding about 100 feet, face first, after taking a tumble.

Today, I ended up with pine needles in my underwear, hair, and, inexplicably since I was wearing boots, the inside of my socks. It was probably because I learned my technique from Leatherface.

Nevertheless, I’m a pretty resourceful broad and I took care of business.

Just don’t ask Otis.