Nate’s definitely going to Heaven; he’s done his time in Christmas lighting Hell

I didn’t see much of Nate yesterday.

I caught a glimpse of him every now and then as he played electrician.

We decided that we would decorate the inside of our house for Christmas yesterday. Zoe won’t be home with us next weekend and there’s a chance that none of us will be home the day after Thanksgiving to get it done so yesterday was as good a day as any.

And in Andy’s world, if the house doesn’t look like Christmas threw up all over it by the day after Thanksgiving, she loses all of her HO HO HO and there’s nothing sadder around the holidays than a HO-less Andy. Just ask Nate.

As a side note, Andy thinks it’s weird to blog in the third person so she’s not going to do it anymore.

You’re welcome.

As a second side note, when I say “we decided we would decorate,” I mean those of us in the house that do not own a Y chromosome. Those of us who do own a Y chromosome became apoplectic at the mere thought of decorating this early and pitched a fit and had to be talked down from the roof.

We have an artificial tree. Actually, we have two of them, but only one is pre-lit. That’s because we were smart when we bought that one. I’m not sure what we were when we bought the unlit one. Drunk, maybe? On crack, possibly? Stupid? Most definitely.

But that’s why hindsight is always 20/20, isn’t it? Because if foresight was 20/20 instead of myopic with horrific astigmatism, everything would be perfect and there would be no such thing as unlit Christmas trees or unlit garland and I’d have absolutely nothing to blog about today and you wouldn’t be late for work. Where’s the fun in that?

We used to have real Christmas trees but Nate couldn’t handle their irritating habit of shedding, nor the trails of needles and sap they would leave when dragged through the house and out to the curb the day after Christmas. As for me, I loved having a real tree, even though I quickly tired of shimmying underneath its branches to water it every day. I’m not 21 anymore and my shimmying days are long over. But what swayed me the most towards an artificial tree was watching Nate’s alternative disposal method of hacking them to pieces in the dining room and then carrying their carcass parts in a hefty bag to the curb.

There is something so Vinnie Boombotz about that alternative method … getting whacked and swimming with the fishes in cement shoes, all because you have an annoying habit and you no longer serve any purpose. Never again will I bite my nails and ask WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH MY LIFE in the presence of Nate without first looking down to make sure I’m not standing on a tarp.

I don’t blame Nate and his chromosomes for not looking forward to Christmas decorating, because the bulk of the tedious grunt work falls on his shoulders. Tedious grunt work encompasses all of the outside lighting and decorating, as well as all of the indoor lighting, including trees, the garland around the stairs, the garland around the windows, the garland around the mantle, and all 617 of my little houses.

Actually, I think I only have eight little houses but by the time Nate find the bulbs for those, he can’t count very well anymore.

The girls and I do all the rest of the indoor decorating but we stay far far away from anything having to do with electrical outlets and extension cords and power strips because who wants to spend their holidays in the burn unit at Strong Memorial?

I asked Nate to smile for the camera and this is what I got. I don’t think that was a genuine smile. Do you? It was actually kind of scary so I didn’t ask him to smile anymore. I think this is what becomes of an otherwise normal, mild mannered, laid back human being after he runs out to get Christmas lights, then runs out again to get different lights, then again for bigger lights, once more for smaller lights and one last time for more lights.

That’s just a guess on my part. When Nate stops foaming at the mouth, I’ll ask him.

I think I’ve mentioned Nate’s ginger ale habit before. He drinks 2-3 cans a night after work and on weekends, he usually finishes at least one six pack, if not two.

I think this can may have been number 16 for today. He tends to drink a little more when he’s untangling Christmas lights and trying to determine which one of the 42,796 blown bulbs in one string is responsible for the other 42,795 blown bulbs, because it’s that particular bulb that, while you can’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law or before a psychiatric board or to your wife, is yelling directly in your face HA! NOPE! NOT THAT ONE! AND NOT THAT ONE EITHER! LOSER!

I’m just grateful he doesn’t drink alcohol as I don’t have time to scour ebay for a new liver because even if I could and even if I scored free holiday shipping, what are the chances they gift wrap?

And for all of you out there with 20/20 vision, please disregard that line of dust under the lamp in the photo. This is just one of the reasons I’m grateful for my 20/1000 vision.

Oh, and that’s Helena’s push pin in the photo, the very same push pin I found near the tree about 4.2 seconds before Nate stepped on it. Can I just get a big, fat WHEW from everyone?

WHEW.

Because if he had stepped on that pin, we wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas for approximately forever, even if I promised him a tetanus shot under the tree.

No, I didn’t see much of Nate yesterday. And I won’t be seeing much of him today either as he’s off to eat a couple of pounds of food and drink a couple of gallons of ginger ale because the Buffalo Bills are playing in Monday night football tonight. And I won’t see much of him tomorrow either because he’ll be recuperating from tonight.

But that’s OK because he did an awesome job yesterday and our house looks beautiful and he’s earned the right to yell all he wants at tall, ginormous men with no necks until he’s so hoarse that he can’t talk for days. DAYS.

So, yell all you want, Nate! Here, take this bullhorn.

I’m going to sack out on the couch and watch one of those ginormous neckless men myself as he dances across the floor with Kym on Dancing With the Stars.

And during commercials, I’m going to stare at my Christmas tree and its hundreds and hundreds of tiny white lights perfectly aligned and silently thank Nate for his bordering on obsessive-compulsive penchant for symmetry and proper wattage.

Photos are coming. I’m fighting with my camera and my tripod. They’re winning.

.

.