And while we're on the subject of Christmas...

I’m mentally preparing for tension around October/November-time for the remainder of our marriage, following a recent discussion about Christmas.

Him: “Irish Christmas is the BEST.  I don’t really like spending Christmas anywhere else.”

Moi: “Hmmmm, that’s...interesting.  And potentially problematic for us as a couple.”

Him: “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was nice spending Christmas with your family in the States two years ago -- except for the part where you guys drugged me [see sidenote] -- but it wasn’t the same...no pub on Christmas Eve after doing all your shopping, you open all your presents in the morning in random order...and no one goes out on Stephens’ Day.”  

[Sidenote -- Irish Male Melodrama at play]:  My family didn’t *really* drug him -- he was complaining of (man) flu symptoms after we opened presents on Christmas Day, so my brother gave him a Benadryl from the medicine cupboard.  Except didn’t verify if it was the drowsy or non-drowsy kind.  We checked the packet after M said he felt “a bit weird,” which is Irish for “I think something might be seriously wrong.”  Ah yes, that might be the small print warning of rapid and extreme fatigue.  So he spent Christmas Day passed out in a Benadryl-induced haze until dinner at 6 p.m.  (Which lots of people, I hasten to point out, would quite enjoy.  But anyway...)

Moi: “I’m sorry, did you just say you do all your Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve?”  

Him: “Errmmmm, eh, well, you know...it’s more just the little last minute bits.”

Moi: “Good.  Because I don’t want bath salts or a foot-spa or a voucher for petrol.”

Him: “Haha, right, of course not.”  

Long pause.  

“So what do you want then?”

“We’re going shopping next weekend -- I’ll pick it out.”

Division of Labor

M got very excited the first weekend in December to put up Christmas decorations.   

Him: “I love Christmas -- you know that.”  

Moi: “I know, I like Christmas too, but it was kind of verboten in my family to put stuff up before Dec 15th.  It’s a way of distancing yourself from those crazy people who put their tree up at Thanksgiving.”  

Him: “Um, we’re in Ireland -- no one cares about Thanksgiving.  Free yourself from past constraints.  This is our chance to create our own traditions.”

I ponder this thoughtless assault on my culture (Thanksgiving) and the rather thoughtful suggestion that we create our own family rituals.  

Moi: “Fine.  If you can find the tree and decorations, then yes, we can put them up.”

Thirty minutes later, he has located (attic) and assembled the tree, the living room is strewn with Christmas lights and the dogs are intently sniffing the box of baubles.  (Moldy food or mouse droppings, I wonder worriedly?  Neither as it turns out -- assume the shininess of said baubles has activated a latent canine-magpie gene.)

I suggest, as a nod to my holiday roots, that we put on National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation DVD for “ambiance.”  He groans outwardly -- I made him watch for the first time last year and he was unimpressed -- but agrees.  

Funny then, how another 30 minutes later, I’m still grappling with the Christmas lights and he’s sitting on the sofa, half-heartedly fiddling with some Christmas ornaments and sticky tape, eyes glued to Chevy Chase on TV.  

“Ah, that Clark Griswold, a modern hero...do I have any roll-neck cardigans?”

And so the Christmas division of labor for the remainder of our marriage is established: he gets it down, I put it up.  At least we’re clear on that one.

(Not Quite) Fairytale of New York

It says something (I’m not entirely sure what) about the Irish national character that the most beloved Christmas carol -- played on semi-permanent loop from early November ‘til the new year -- is a rollicking duet/rant between an alcoholic Irish immigrant locked up in a New York drunk tank and his bitter, drug-addicted spouse.  Like the Irish themselves, it’s a joyful, tragic, funny, melancholy and nostalgic piece of music, full of dark themes and black humor.  There’s nothing particularly amusing about broken dreams or heroin, yet you can’t help but sing, dance and be merry.  Call it Christmas, but with the rough edges mercifully (because honestly, who can really stand all that schmaltz?) intact.

So without further ado, I bring you The Pogues’ most excellent "Fairytale of New York."

HIM: It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

HER: They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

HER: You were handsome
HIM: You were pretty
Queen of New York City
TOGETHER: When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night
The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

HER: You're a bum
You're a punk
HIM: You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
HER: You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

TOGETHER: The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

HIM: I could have been someone
HER: Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
HIM: I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

TOGETHER: The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day