Oh Christmas Tree (I highly dislike you)

I try to keep my hatred for inanimate objects to a minimum, since obviously the return on that is pretty limited, but the Christmas tree we brought home is kind of like that child in a horror movie, who is in a creepy orphanage, then the lovely little parents pick it to take home and love and then the child becomes something else, something wicked. 

I had my doubts from the beginning about The Tree, and while Brendan did a great job at picking out a handsome one, there was something about it that just didn't settle right with me.  This tree is kind of like a beautiful woman who turns out to be a stalker.

I've already asked Brendan several times if we could ditch the tree on the 26th. No ceremony.  No sadness over the end of the holidays.  Just the sweet satisfaction of that tree sitting sadly on the curb in the cold.  I swear I would wave from the window. 

Today I asked if we could kick it out once we were done opening gifts.

This tree, this thing, has shed needles with such skill and efficiency, despite my babying with water and a dash of sugar, that I swear it knows. 

It knows that dropping needles all over gifts is the wrong thing to do.

It knows that in the quiet evenings, when we are sitting watching TV, I can hear the needles drop.  

The other night, at 3 am, it threw a glass ornament from itself.  The sound of glass breaking in the middle of the night caused a chain of events in our house that involved the words "Get the bat" and two adrenalin filled bodies going SWAT style into the living room.  

There the tree just stood.  Dumb.  Tree eyebrows raised.  The ornament shattered at its base. WHAT? It asked in a voice that only I can hear.

And then another needle dropped. And another.  

This morning I cleared out all of the gifts, removed the tree skirt (although I'm pretty sure this tree is a male), and swept up what seemed like 1/3 of the tree's needles.  The floor was clean, needle-free.  I put the skirt back.  A few needles dropped when my hand threatened to touch a branch.  (Can that be considered an attack?  Did my tree just launch defensive measures?!)

Then I started the task of painstakingly putting all the gifts back under the branches.  It was like a sick game of Operation.  I broke a sweat, adding the smell of an onion to the peppermint candle we had going.  Just as I had the last gifts tucked in, my hand went all wonky.  A branch was touched.  And then this:

I wish I was kidding.  

Now we are just sitting here staring at each other.  I have some Christmas music on and the baby's napping.  It's like an old-fashioned draw.  

Did I miss something here?  Is there a secret to keeping needles on trees, besides growing one through your living room floor? (Hmm..that'd be interesting..).