This Christmas, I decided to get a bit more festive.
Translation: My mom went through her room full of Christmas decorations and sent me home with boxes of stuff.
Sure, none of it matches the theme of my tree, but I’ll be darned if it doesn’t look like we’re celebrating some sort of holiday around here.
And I LOVE IT.
And the kids LOVE IT.
But husby…? Oh, husby.
In hindsight, I wish I would have had my camera ready for the face he made when he walked through the door and the new motion-sensored Christmas music-playing wreath started chiming away.
Because I don’t think that husby likes the festive-ness. AT ALL.
Now, because I didn’t want to make new nail holes in the walls (the decorations alone are enough torture for the guy), I just took down the existing wall decor and hung up the Christmas stuff.
Well, our only decor was a clock. And really, who cares what time it is.
So there sits a wreath, in place of our clock.
And that first night, in our newly decorated, super festive living room, mostly because I have no life, but also because I think I’m HILARIOUS, I sat waiting.
Waiting for every single time that my main squeeze looked up at the clock/wreath so that I could shout “IT’S MERRY CHRISTMAS O’CLOCK!”
But after a millionish times or more, and when he started visibly cringing in anticipation of my squeal each time he realized his accidental glance, I pinky-swore that I would cool it.
But where there’s a will, there’s a way. And to “cool it” is not at all the same as to “stop altogether.”
But at least I’m not shouting it and giggling uncontrollably anymore…?
The poor guy.