Just the other night, Drip Dry and I were out to dinner with some friends and the subject of my blog came up. He admitted to having scrolled through it every once in a while ( to make sure I haven't painted him in an unfavorable light, no doubt) and he admitted that, all-in-all, I have been very kind to him.
Well my friends, today the gloves come off- not for any particular reason, but just because yesterday's post reminded me of a funny (but-not-so-funny) story that happens to involve my husband.
But there's no arguing with the truth. And sometimes the truth is just dying to get told. . .____________________________________
Yesterday I told you how - for the past 16 years - I had been spending each Christmas Eve coordinating the church Nativity pageant - complete with over 150 angels, sheep, shepherds, innkeepers, bell ringers, and wise men. Needless to say, the whole experience would leave me a bit frazzled and harried, and even though I had been in the church building for over six hours, I invariably would come home feeling like I hadn't experienced one spiritual moment at all. So one year in the not-so-distant-past, I decided to return to church alone for the 10:00 p.m. Mass.
But how would Santa come? you might ask.
My children were older. All Drip Dry had to do was shoo them off to bed, tiptoe downstairs to the basement, pull out three separate lawn and leaf bags individually labeled by daughter, and empty the contents of the bag underneath the tree. (Mind you, I even had a pre-filled stocking inside each bag.) Then he needed to nibble a little on the carrot sticks (Why should the Easter Bunny get all the good eyesight? Besides, I haven't found the time to bake a Christmas cookie in about ten years. . . ) drink a little milk, put on his Christmas cap, and climb into bed.
It was that simple.
When I came home from church at midnight, that good-for-nothing elf was in his bed alright. . . but there wasn't a single gift under the tree!!!!
Only a man could forget about Christmas!
Let me take that back. . . I don't want to paint all men with the same broad brushstroke. . . Only Drip Dry Could Forget About Christmas!
I was responsible for gathering the lists, acquainting my children with reality, shopping for the gifts, wrapping, sorting and labeling them. . . He was responsible for putting them under the tree.
I didn't realize it at the time, but now I do. . .
This man really thinks there is a Santa Claus! He went to bed without lifting a finger, woke up the next morning, and the gifts were all right where they should be. . .
Well. . . . . Thank you, Santa!
Oh, how I wish I had run back to church to get some liturgical charcoal and then trained the video camera on his face the next morning instead of my daughters'. . . .