I’m about to embark on another Christmas with Mr. Wonderful and his seasonal joy. For the next few weeks I’ll hear his annual protestations:

Why are you buying the grandkids so many gifts? You give them stuff all year long.
 

Not shortbread again! Do you realize how many calories they have?
 

You’re not decorating the stair rail, are you? It takes forever to put that stuff away after Christmas.
 

Oh no, please not the Santa collection. How many do you have now, about three hundred?
 

I don’t think we need a tree this year. The kids are getting pretty old and it’s so much work for such a short time.

When he complained about the problems involved with cutting the bottom off a fresh tree and how the holder leaked water and Tree Fresh on the carpet I gave in and bought a huge artificial one with lights already wound around the metal branches and silver sparkle dust glued on the greenery. It comes apart in three sections but John keeps it set up in the basement all year round. I try to hide its hulking form under bed sheets so there will be an element of surprise in December.

I wish I could hide my Christmas shopping bills from him but it’s no use. He tracks me with his own brand of radar. Every day he sits in his office in front of the computer and it’s tuned into VISA Central. He can see every store I’ve been in and Ka-ching…how much I have spent.

We used to have an annual Christmas Open House a week before the twenty-fifth but he was never happy about it. While I baked special treats and delicious dips he sulked around the house, not speaking unless it was to complain about why we were inviting certain people. “We haven’t spoken to them for a couple of years. Why are they coming? You know he drinks like a fish.” One year a guest took off with John’s toe rubbers and left a pair, two sizes smaller. It took John about fifteen minutes of struggling to get his size eleven brogues in a size nine before he realized what must have happened.

That wasn’t a great party because when he wasn’t bar tending he was jockeying cars around in the driveway to let the early arrivers out before the late comers were ready to leave. One lady had us go through the pile of coats on our bed looking for her cashmere lined leather gloves. We never did find them but she kept saying they would probably show up the next day. I swore to myself that if they did, I’d run them through the garburator.

I’ve had to give up our Open House since the fire. I was toasting almonds under the broiler and the oil in them ignited and burst into flame. I called John to help but he just stood there and told me the fire would go out itself, so I called the fire department. I stressed to them that there was no emergency but my oven was on fire. I asked if they thought the fire could burn through the back of the stove and set the kitchen aflame. When I think about it now, I realize that no sensible fire fighter is going to sit on the phone and debate the likelihood of my house burning down or not. The line went dead and in five minutes we heard sirens on the street. John glared at me and said, “Now you’ve done it. Those guys are going to come in here with their big boots on.” I said, “Well you can’t ask fire fighters to take off their boots.” Sure enough, they came in and dragged our stove outside where a small crowd of curious neighbours gathered to watch as the appliance smoldered away in our driveway. Then we had to figure out how to get it back inside before the evening festivities.

I’ve given up a lot of things for John:
 

He thought the artificial snow on the windows was too messy.
 

No outdoor holiday lights for us. It’s too cold to hang them and half the bulbs are broken anyway. That’s okay though. He was so frugal about the electricity, he set the timer to come on at 9pm and off at 10pm. One year I didn’t make it out in that hour and missed the cheery display altogether.

By now I’m sure you can guess how he feels about a showy, crimson poinsettia plant. “It’ll be dead in a month. Why get one?”

Last December I saw a display of real live mistletoe in a flower shop window. I couldn’t resist buying some. That night when John came home from work I tried to kiss him. He looked up at the doorframe and said, “What did that set you back?”

I celebrate Christmas as best as I can but it’s not easy with my husband. He’s sure no Jimmy Stewart. If you ever hear a bell ring in our house on Christmas Eve, you can be sure it’s not an angel getting his wings; it’s only our doorbell.

Mr. Wonderful does have “wonderful” qualities at other times of the year but honestly, I don’t know how a Christmas loving girl, got stuck with a man who runs stiff competition with Ebenezer Scrooge in December.

Special note:
In case you are moved to tears for my eccetric husband and his complaining wife, I'd like to say that he is not upset and really enjoyed being the star of my story.