Last night, I did some Christmas decorating. Not much, just a little. The family is campaigning for a real tree, while I'm pretty certain that cleaning up an endless supply of evergreen needles would turn me into a grumpy old man named Ebenezer who walks around muttering bah, humbug all day.
We love the experience of going to the tree farm, riding a tractor trailer with bales of hay for seats, selecting and chopping down a tree, and hauling it to the nice people who shake and wrap it for transport. While they do that dirty work, we go visit THE BEST SANTA IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD, get hot cocoa or cider, pay for our tree, watch a model train go round and round, and visit a few of Santa's reindeer. When we're finished, so are the nice people who shake and wrap trees, and who then tie our selection to the top of my car.
Who would not want this experience every December? In fact, I think I just talked myself into it.
Oy, the needles!
Anyway, last night I hung a ball of artificial mistletoe over the kitchen entry from the back hall. My hope is that it adds some color to our otherwise colorless kitchen and draws attention to the fact that we have extra-tall cabinets to match our 9' ceiling.
Hanging the mistletoe had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I love kissing my husband under the mistletoe every bit as much as sipping cider while watching THE BEST SANTA IN THE WHOLE WORLD take my children on his knees and treat them like his bestest friends for life.
So when George noticed the mistletoe after dinner and called me over to it, I dashed into his arms. I was expecting a chaste kiss in front of the kids, but no, my romantic hubby wanted a real kiss and came at me with clear expectation of that.
I squealed "ewwwww!" and turned away.
Our firstborn fell apart laughing. "You got owned," he told his father through his guffaws. I began giggling uncontrollably because my ewwww was completely misinterpreted, and that was just so gosh darn funny.
Poor George. You see, I had just eaten a Pepperidge Farm Orange Milano cookie. Bits of it were still floating around in my mouth, and all I could think was what an icky surprise awaited my dear husband when he French kissed me at that particular moment.
I'm still chortling this morning because it brought back memories of another episode of uncontrollable laughter. Back in our Boise days, before Nick was born and when my boobs were still perky and my waist was still tiny and my butt was still firm and my hair was still dark brown, George and I went for our regular walk around the ball fields in our neighborhood. We were discussing men and women and infidelity, and I saw the perfect opportunity to fish for a compliment.
I said, "Well, I can't imagine any man other than you wanting me."
He replied, "Susan, men really aren't that picky."
After a brief, Arctic silence, he realized what he had said and started back-pedalling. "That's NOT what I meant! I'm sorry!" etcetera. While my first instinct was to milk the moment for what it was worth, I ended up dissolving into helpless giggles.
And that's why we've been married 25 years: because we can stop laughing.