Every year, I like to set up our Christmas decorations before the first of December. And every year my husband whines about it whether he’s home to do any of the decorating or not.
“Can’t we just be normal people and set up the Christmas tree the weekend before Christmas?”
“By ‘normal’ you mean ‘apathetic holiday Grinches’, right? Because, no. We can’t. I want our children to have the entire month of December to fawn over the Christmas tree, play with my Santa Village and generally annoy the crap out of me as they touch and break every nice holiday decoration I’ve lovingly curated or made with my own two hands. Because that is half the fun of the Christmas season.”
“I’m pretty sure half the fun is ripping open the gifts and the other half is playing with the presents, Tanis.”
“Bite me.”
“The baby Jesuses in all seven of your Nativity scenes scattered everywhere do not approve of your language.”
At which point I flipped him the bird. Which, for the record is not nearly as satisfying when you are talking to someone over the telephone and can’t see said middle finger waggling in their direction.
“Speaking of Christmas, any idea what you want this year because I’m drawing a blank. And since you’re still insisting that steak knives and that electric can opener I bought you a few years ago are not real Christmas gifts, I’ve got nothing. Unless you want a new air compressor. Because there is one on sale up here and it’s totally awesome.”
“I swear, if you buy me an air compressor for Christmas I’ll cut you with those damn steak knives.”
“It was just an idea. Sheesh.”
“How about, I buy you the compressor and you buy me a new Le Creuset pot I’ve been wanting.”
“You mean those cast iron pots that are worth more than three of my pay checks?”
“No, I mean those brilliantly coloured chip-resistant porcelain enameled cast iron pots of which I very much covet.”
“Oh, you mean those ridiculously heavy pots you want for the sole purpose of saying you own one, only to get it and have it sit in the cupboard collecting dust from it’s sad lack of use which will inevitably taunt me every time I’m home and see the pot you’ve not been using since you rarely ever cook.”
“Yes that pot! That’s the one I want!”
“I’ll think about it. Although I’m pretty sure you’d at least use the air compressor.”
“True.”
“Is there anything else on your wish list I should know about? Since you’re dreaming big dreams and all right now.”
“Hmmm. Well, there is always the stuffed beaver I’ve been coveting.”
“Snort. Please tell me that stuffed beaver is a euphemism for a sex thing. Because I’m totally on board with that.”
“No you pervert. A. stuffed. beaver. You know, like taxidermed? For our living room. Because it would look totally dope in the corner by the fish tank.”
“There is so many things wrong with that sentence. First off, I’m not buying you a dead stuffed beaver. And secondly, nobody says the word “Dope” as slang. Get out of the 90′s T, and join me in the present.”
“Fine. Don’t buy me the stuffed beaver. I’ll save my own money and buy it myself. And I’m totally going to put it on your side of the bed when I do finally get it.”
“Uh huh. Anything else on your wish list?”
“Well, there was a two-headed stuffed duck my friend showed me on the internet. That was really awesome.”
Pure awesome. In two, adorable fuzzy yellow heads.
“I’m not buying you any dead animals. Nor any live animals. I’m not even going to buy you any pretend animals. No animals. None. I’d rather buy you the damn pot you’ll never use.”
“And you thought you were the smart one in this relationship. Be sure to make sure my pot is in the Flame colour. So pretty.”
“I hate when you do that.”
“I know sweetie.”
“I wish I had married someone normal.”
“I know baby. But it could be worse. I could have wished for a complete wolf skin to wear on my head to go watch the new Twilight movie.”
“What? Who does that??”
“My friend, Jenny the Bloggess.”
“That’s it. When I get home I’m confiscating your computer. No good ever comes from the internet.”
“My stuffed beaver comes from the internet.”
“I’m so sorry I ever started this conversation.”
“I love you too baby. Check your email. I’ll send you all the relevant links.”
“Please don’t make our kids weird Tanis. Promise me you won’t talk to them. Like ever.”
“Just you wait until you see their Christmas lists. You’ll be wishing for my stuffed beaver let me tell you.”
“I’m hanging up now because I think you’ve just scarred me for life.”
And that, my friends, is the other half of the fun of the Christmas season. And I’ve still got the entire month of December ahead of me to torture him some more.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
