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.”