Life Is Such A Sweet Insanity.

So tomorrow Earl and I are going to the mall to do our holiday shopping. We try to make the Christmas shopping a fun experience by going someplace that we are not overly familiar with. It gives us a new perspective on our surroundings and we’re less apt to get hostile with people we might know in the community if we go someplace out of state or something like that. However, since I am on-call this weekend, I’m not sure that we’ll be going very far, so there’s a slight chance that we might get hostile with someone in the next city. It’s the chance you take when you’re concentrating on the spirit of the season.

I have never been one to enjoy shopping. I don’t like the hustle. I don’t like the bustle. I like going places and looking at geeky things, and I certainly like buying something shiny, but I like to do it during a snowstorm, avalanche or earthquake or other event as the stores tend to be less crowded and people tend to be less focused on being mean to one another. Only the laid back folks tend to shop during outrageous events and quite frankly I find them to be the more pleasant to be around. Besides, when salespeople are all concerned about a blizzard or an approaching tornado funnel they tend to be less intrusive into my personal space and I feel more comfortable in the store.

My father rarely stepped foot into a grocery or department store. When we went Christmas shopping for the holidays we’d always start out at Central Tractor. We might make our way to Two Guys or JM Fields afterwards. I know that he stepped foot into our local Ames only twice, and once was before it was open (so he could drop off some construction materials they had bought from the family business) and the second time was when he picked out my three-speed Huffy bike that was destined to be my birthday present.

He did find solace in B. Daltons, now that I think about it. He did enjoy reading at the book store while we made our way around the shopping center turned mall which has since been turned back into a shopping center. Maybe I should just park myself at Barnes and Noble tomorrow and find a little bit of comfort in the middle of the chaos.

‘Tis a pity the weather forecast looks relatively calm.

Earl and I have been together for over 1 1/2 decades. We have had joyous times, we’ve had sad times, we are there for each other, through thick and thin, for better or for worse and all of that stuff. We’ve been through two house purchases, built a business together, killed a business together and are able to finish each other’s sentences without an issue. However, there is one important part of our relationship that we struggle with.

We both think we know how to put lights on the Christmas tree. In fact, we each know how to do this. And the struggle is, the other one does it wrong.

This is one of the primary dangers of a marriage of two gay men. Those that dabble in the stereotypical aspects of the homosexual path have a certain eye or flair when it comes to things like decorating. There’s a really good chance that not just one but both members of the relationship have been the “designated one” for Christmas light installation whilst growing up. I know that I was the one that put up the Christmas lights outside every year. I rearranged them on a nightly basis after school. Every time my mother drove into town I asked her to pick up another 35-count set of “Merry Midget” lights. The meter on the electric pole by the driveway spun so hard the wires to the road quivered. I timed the blinking lights on the Christmas tree perfectly.

The issue is, Earl did the same thing growing up.

Imagine the conflict when we realized that while we both had the same goal with our festive lighting practices, we did it in completely opposite ways.

Earl starts at the top of tree. I start at the bottom, at the spot closest to the wall outlet.

Earl puts the tree topper on first. I shriek at such a thought.

Earl lights to use the last strand of lights to fill in random places throughout the tree that might be devoid of light. I maintain a symmetry of having the lights weave in and out in a parallel, yet suggestively random pattern.

You can just imagine the horror I felt back in 1996 when we went to decorate our first tree together and he put the star on the top first. The crabby woman that lived under our apartment had to bang on the ceiling with her cane because we were yelling so much.

I have learned to take a deep breath when it’s time for this annual practice but I refuse to give in completely. I claim ownership of the ladder and I’m not coming down until I am satisfied with the installation of the lights. As we grow older things have mellowed out a bit. What used to involve yelling and huffing and puffing has been reduced to an occasional glare and the sneaky practice of making sure the light strands remain parallel (please don’t tell him), despite his attempts to go all over the place with that last set of lights.

I did give in a little bit and ended the practice of having the Merry Midgets blink. No one accuse me of not having the holiday spirit, after all.