I had to work all weekend, but I forced B! to go out and get us a Christmas tree. He didn’t really want to – he was  into the aluminum tree idea – but I was adamant about a REAL tree. Because I have ORNAMENTS. That hang on a REAL tree.

Or so I said.

So anyway, he comes back with the tree, all huffing and puffing, and I’m like, what’s wrong? Well apparently, somebody at the tree place had opened the rear passenger side door of the car, the door you’re never supposed to open. Ever. It hasn’t closed properly since 2008 sometime, and while I’ve grown used to shrieking door-opening warnings to anyone who might pass my way (sorry, girl who I picked up at the airport that time), B!, apparently, had not yet developed that reflex. So the door had been opened, and then, hey! The door wouldn’t shut.

“So what’s the trick?” he asks me.

The trick, dude, is to not let anyone open the door.

I told him so.

Then we set up the tree, drank some truly putrid mulled wine (free advice: add some sugar), like, duct-taped the door shut or something, and went to bed.

Today I made him do our laundry, because I’m just that giving and wonderful, and, after he dropped off our clean clothes, he set off for the repair shop. You know, to get the door fixed. Because it’s obviously broken.

Should I be ashamed that in the fifteen months or so that door’s been broken it never once occurred to me to take the thing in and have it serviced? (Like seriously. Never crossed my mind.) Or should I just be thankful that, once the hinge finally shit the bed, it wasn’t my problem anymore?

I lean towards the latter.