I have something that I need to share with you all, and I feel that right here on my blog is the appropriate place to do it. So here goes . . .
I have a mixed marriage.
That’s right. It’s true. I know you are probably shocked and appalled, and honestly, I don’t blame you.
Most of the time, it is just fine. My husband and I get along well. There are many other things that we have in common, that bind us and connect us in more ways than the things that cause discord. But around this time of year, our stark differences become apparent, and it gets tougher to ignore the obvious. That we are two very different species.
It is time to come clean. I am married to . . . an Elf!
Please don’t judge him or my love for him too harshly. You don’t know what it’s like until you have dealt with it yourself. I have learned to live with his hyper-cheeriness and overly exuberant holiday ways. But sometimes it is difficult. VERY difficult. Like this last weekend.
Thanksgiving was relatively early this year. There is a full week of November left after the turkey holiday passes, leaving more than a month to prepare for Christmas. And while other families are sedated and stuffed full of turkey and taters and cranberry sauce, we in the “Laws” household do things a little differently on the day after this gluttonous holiday celebration. No, not Black Friday shopping! Now that would be cause for divorce. We do something even more insidious and obnoxious. We . . . go cut down our Christmas tree.
Every single year. Every. Single. YEAR. The day after Thanksgiving, you will find me and the kids, traipsing along behind our resident Elf, through fields and fields of fresh Christmas trees, trying to find the perfect specimen of nature to unceremoniously chop down and haul home on the top of our roof. Shameful.
Oh, but that is not the worst of it. Not even by a small percentage. Ho ho no! When we drag this poor, formerly grand and living creature into our living room, hoist it up inside a little plastic vice, and prepare it for display, guess who gets to do all the work to decorate this behemoth. Not the Elf. No sir. It is I . . . the Scrooge.
What is this? (I’m sure you are wondering). How on earth does the non-Elf of the family get roped into being the one who is solely responsible for tree positioning, lighting, bowing and ornamenting? Especially since said anti-Elf is actually allergic to pine and gets all of these nifty little red bumps all up and down her arms when she comes in contact with said tree? ‘Tis a mystery, indeed. But somehow, over the many years of our
unholy union holy matrimony, the hubs and I have come up with an unspoken deal whereas I am responsible for all of the inside decoration, including the hateful tree, and he deals with everything out of doors. This includes climbing all over the house to hang up lights, so I guess I at least get the safer end of this bargain, if not the better part.
But this is not the worst part. You would think it would be the fact that I’ve somehow willingly gone along with this madness of cutting down a tree and installing it squarely in our otherwise non-naturey living room the very day after Thanksgiving (there are still leftovers, people!), ensuring that once the tree is removed from the home, those stabby little dead needles will assault me repetitively as I try to remove all of the decorations from it’s boughs . . . but no. Or the fact that no matter how well I plan, or how new all of the string of lights to be hung around the tree are, that every year, EVERY SINGLE YEAR, a strand will go out after I have spent over an hour wrapping the entire tree in sparkly lights, thus causing part of, or sometimes all of, the tree to be doused in darkness.
Oh no, it is not just that. Alas, it has now become dire. I fear for us all at this point. Because this year? Oh this year . . . apparently my husband’s Elfiness is contagious.
That’s right. They are . . . mini Elves!! Upon returning to the house after running an errand with my hubs, and seeing their mother in a battle royale of wrestling lights onto this abomination, my children rushed upstairs to change their clothes, and completely unbidden, returned wearing Christmas PJs. The little one is actually dressed as an Elf, and the biggun is wearing Santa PJs.
I felt it necessary to warn everyone of this development. Since I am now surrounded, it is only a matter of time before I succumb to their cheery and Elfy influences. I’ve fought a good long hard fight, but I fear I have come to my end. I wish to bid you adieu, and warn you to remain vigilant, my friends. Afterall . . . if you don’t stay aware, this could also happen to you. You’ve been warned.
Are you a Scrooge or an Elf? Are you surrounded by like-minded folk, or are you also in a mixed relationship? Am I the ONLY ONE who has their tree already up and decorated??? Say it ain’t so.