Another Christmas, another year of having to explain, "Kids, your dad doesn't put up outside lights because he has a headache from drinking too much eggnog. Why don't you make Daddy feel better by playing some soothing music? How about that AC/DC version of Drummer Boy on your electric guitars?"
The truth is, my husband is the original Scrooge. He would like nothing better than for me to put up the tree at 11:00 pm Christmas Eve, take it down before lunch on the 25th, and for everyone to exchange gifts that don't require any money to leave our bank account. You know, things like leaves. Sporks. The classified pages from the newspaper. In his opinion, the best thing about Christmas is getting to eat date bars, which an old family friend used to make on her fireplace hearth. (By "old," I mean "babysat Teddy Roosevelt.") Naturally, Husband thinks I should make them the way she did, and, naturally, I ignore him and continue to feed my family microwaved date bars that resemble radiated road tar mixed with potting soil.
I'm going to write a lot more about our Christmas traditions, but not today. Our home computer is offline, and I have to go pick up the stuff for my husband's stocking - a pencil nub, a purple zipper, and 4 M&Ms that I found under the front seat of my van.