By Mark David Blum, Esq.

As a rule, I am the Grinch at Christmastime. I refuse to get into the holiday spirit until December 24th; and even then begrudgingly so. It is a tradition and everybody in my world knows my how much detest everything christmasy until the holiday actually arrives. To me, the holiday is the 25th, not the months of October, November, and December. Even Fox News has to agree with that one.

Just because I am a boor and a scrooge does not mean Christmas does not arrive at the Blum household. As much as I lust for Halloween and Thanksgiving; for my bride and my spawn, Christmas is their favorite holiday. The home, from top to bottom, turns into a giant homage to the yule season.

Every year the process is the same. With a smile on my face, I escort the Lady to the tree lot as she selects that tree which shall become Hers. That tree is then captured, tied up, tossed onto the bed of the truck and driven to its future of holiday servitude. I drag its dying thirsty carcass up the stairs, impale it on its stand, get it up, light it up, then wash up and walk away. My job is done. Over the next several hours as I normally sit in a bar, it then becomes the domain of the missus to unpack her boxes and perfectly and with her own style, aplomb and adorn the tree with gifts and trinkets gathered over a lifetime together. Last to adorn the tree bringing its collar full circle is the new trinket bought this year to be added to the collection.

This year, things have to be different. It is upon my battle hardened shoulders that the burden of welcoming the Savior has fallen. Medical maladies prevent my bride from her favorite chore this year. She is so upset she refuses to have her Christmas. I was directed to just get any old tree, buy some garland, and just stick it up. Poor darling has lost the Christmas spirit due to pain.

Well I don’t quit on people who look to me and I am not going to let her lose out on her favorite holiday because she is an impatient grumpy gal and feeling very miserable. She will not lose Christmas because she cannot do her tree. Yes, karma being the cruel miserable vile vicious mean nasty bitch that she is, and me being the person that I am, she will have her wishes fulfilled and her holidays joyful. Or I will die trying. That is what I do.

Yes, I shall fill my heart full of holiday cheer and my belly full of Xanax and do what all honorable men would do under similar circumstances. I shall submit and be led to graveyard of trees from which only the finest and most perfect shall be snatched. Indeed it will be me who doesn’t just stop with the lights but who, following the precise direction and instruction of She Who Shall Not Be Named, each ornament shall be properly placed with love and due care. Christmas music will blare in the background and I shall smile; though I may bleed. As she debates one branch over another, I shall smile and move each ornament 10, nay 20 or more times, without so much as a single point elevation in blood pressure. All Her santas shall be in their proper place. Every snowman shall stand tall. Each snowflake and trinket will find its’ home.

She shall have all my patience and obedience. It is the only way it can be done. Somewhere in the haze of all the pain, I believe I can find pleasure.

This is what you do when you make a promise. You keep it. When you promise to be there, you are there whenever needed or summoned, whether wanted or not. My bride shall have her Christmas, godammit. Then I am going out to have that drink.