Hubster can be a pain.
Oh, I love him. Don't get me wrong. There's no one else on earth I'd rather be bound and gagged to for life. Truly.
But there are certain idiosyncrasies this man possesses that drive me up a stinkin' wall. And lucky you, I'm about to share one of them!
The Christmas List.
There. I've said it. I've aired his dirty underwear to the blogging world in a semi-literal sense.
The man WILL NOT come up with a Christmas list. And if he does, it contains mundane things like "socks" and "jeans" and "shirts" and "a new pair of tennis shoes." And even then I have to reach down the man's throat and grab every slimy syllable I can to get those few words to come out of his mouth.
To get him into list-making mode in the first place I have to catch him in a seated position and then tie him to whatever is handy. Then I threaten to leave him there until the crows pick his bones clean or he gives me Christmas ideas, whichever comes first. It was almost a toss-up this year.
And when he DOES come up with things he'd like, they have to be a certain KIND of thing or they don't pass muster. For instance, this year he wants a thermal hooded sweatshirt. But not just ANY thermal hooded sweatshirt would do. It has to be a pullover instead of zipped, and it has to have a pouch for his hands in the front instead of pockets.
I finally found it last night online. I'll be going to pick it up at a store across town after work. It costs more than my first car did but I think it's guaranteed for life if you wash it every 3000 miles.
Of course, the one he has now has lasted almost that long. He still wears it when no one can see him because people make so much fun of it. The outside layer is ripped, torn, worn and socially unacceptable, and the inside layer isn't much better. It's like a child's woobie. Maybe I can get someone to make a blanket out of it for him.
Then again, I don't know if there's enough of it left.
Santa can only do so much, you know.