Merry Christmas Husband

Missy wants us to know that she is going to say Merry Christmas. Damn the torpedoes.  She offers this up like an extra dollop of whip cream snuck from the kitchen for our tutti-frutti breakfast meal. When I pick up the check it is sticky from maple syrup and scribbled across the top is Happy Holidays ya’ll!  a smiley face dots the “i”.

“Corporate’ll see that,” She says by way of explanation and grants us an upside down smile. She wipes the sweat off of her brow with the back of her hand to reveal a plump forearm riddled with blue shaded tattoos of roses, snakes and skulls.   I wonder if corporate has seen that.

I look across the table at Paul and he can see by the slight shift in my expression that I am about to challenge her, so he cuts me off.

“Good for you, Merry Christmas!” He says enthusiastically and hands her his credit card.

We leave the restaurant and begin the continuation of our drive through rural Virginia to my mother’s house in North Carolina.  There are billboards screaming “Choose life!” church signs stating that “Jesus is the reason for the season” and crudely constructed crosses perched atop red clay hills. Mixed among the messages is a sign for a gentleman’s club featuring topless ladies and a bright red hand advertising Miss Gina the palm reader.

“I hope Miss Gina’s first name is Va,” I say to Paul.

There is a long pause before he gets it.

“I don’t mind if someone says Merry Christmas, but why do they have to say it like “fuck you, I’m going to say Merry Christmas? What if we were Jewish?” I ask Paul.

“But we’re not,” he says staring straight ahead.

“She didn’t know that. She didn’t know that we were gay either,” I say and hope that Paul does not try to challenge my fuzzy logic.

“Would you like to go back and tell her this?” Paul asks and then continues “I could lay a big sloppy wet kiss on you in front of her.”

I put a check mark in the naughty list column in front of Paul’s name.

We cross the border from Virginia to North Carolina and my lungs constrict.  A list of all of the sanitized terms that will be used to describe the man sitting next to me flicker through my mind like giant black lettered billboards:  Partner, boyfriend or simply Paul, like some man who has showed up for a day in my life.  

Let Missy pour out her sticky sweet Merry Christmas greetings.  The power is not in the reception of the message but in the ability to define and convey your love through a phrase or a word.  Turning to the man sitting next to me I place a hand on his knee and say “Merry Christmas Husband.”

 

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Mainely Christmas

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Clouds-Wells Cottage Maine

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The Fence-Footbridge Beach-Maine

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Footbridge-Ogunquit-Maine

 

Seagrass-Wells Beach-Maine

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A Thorn Between Two Beach Roses

 

Paul and Bill-Cape Neddick-Maine

 

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And now for something completely different

Something very strange has happened.

…

I have run out of stories.


: \


Well, not all of them, but all of the witty, insightful, irreverent ones. I’m going to blame it on Christmas. I was going to blame it on global warming, but we've had such lovely weather lately, I don’t want to jinx it. It’s easy to blame the Holidays for all types of bad things, like depression, anger, despair and loneliness. That’s why people love the holidays. Because they can act like a total ass and then sweep it under the carpet by saying “Meh, it’s Christmas”.


But, I really do love Christmas.

: )


I just wish it didn’t steal my stories.

: (


The good news is that even if I don’t have the words, I have been doodling in Microsoft Paint so I can illustrate a typical day in my life with Paul. You might call it the "Gay agenda".   It’s not so very different than any other couple. At night, we go to bed just like you. Except that Paul likes the room to be exceptionally cold.  In the middle of winter, he opens all of the bedroom windows.

Did I mention that we live in Boston?  But I don’t mind terribly, because this is the type of compromise that couples make.  They do it because they love each other and I show my love by shivering through the night, under fifteen blankets, so that Paul’s restless legs will finally rest. After his nervous legs have slept, they are ready to leap out of bed even before the sun has risen.

The sun could be halfway through its daily journey before my body wants to rise and shine.

 
 
There are some people who can immediately open their eyes, greet the day and start singing. I am not one of those people. But Paul is. Because I find it so very difficult to get out of bed in the morning Paul will snuggle me for five minutes and then all bets are off, as are all of my fifteen blankets. The world is a dark and cruel place when you are suddenly laid bare on top of your mattress in a sub-freezing bedroom.

But Paul is good for me.  He makes me get out of bed and go to the gym; even when I don’t want to go.  After the gym I put my pants on one leg at a time and then pretend that I am going to take the bus to work.  But every day, Paul will say “But you’re too little to take the bus!  Show me how sad you’d be if you had to take the bus.” And then I make a little sad face.

So we get into the car and begin the drive to my office.  Paul loves to drive, so I don’t feel very guilty. He will joke with me and say “Even though I work from home, I’m so glad that we moved into the city so that I could have a commute.”  But I really don’t pay attention to what he is saying because the truth be told, he says a lot in the morning while my brain is still trying to figure out if I am still sleeping.   



But at some point during the drive my brain decides to wake up.  It usually coincides with a song on the radio that makes me happy.



And then at some point during the drive my heart wakes up.  This usually coincides with Paul’s desire to shave thirty seconds off of yesterday’s commute time.

When we get to my office, I give Paul a kiss and tell him I love him. Sometimes he will honk the horn and whistle at me. The rest of the day is probably very much the same as your day. Except that somehow my day with Paul might lead to the collapse of civilization as we know it.

 

Oh, you don’t think that makes sense?

I don’t either.

: )

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