Nothing. I mean, NOTHING, will make a man lose his cool quicker than issues with Christmas lights. Even the most patient of men.
I thought Chris had passed this test right after we were married. Dad was sorting through things in the garage and Chris offered to help. Dad found a box of mangled Christmas lights, pushed the box towards Chris and said, "See if you can make some sense of these."
Chris untangled and organized several strands of lights. I was so impressed.
The tree I selected this year is slightly larger than last year's tree. It took Chris, a couple of neighbors and me to get it in the house. We cut two feet off the top, and I trimmed the branches so it would fit in the tall, but narrow space we always place our tree.
Chris teased me about the tree, but remained patient.
Because this isn't our first rodeo, we put lights on the top few feet of the tree before we brought it in the house. It was easier while the tree was on it's side.
Chris began lighting the rest of the tree yesterday morning. At 8:30 last night, he was making another trip to Home Depot. The day taught him, and me, that when we have a tree this large, it's important to have two zones of lights. One for the top half of the tree and one for the bottom half.
Unfortunately, Chris learned this after lighting the same lower section of the tree, having the lights blow, removing the lights, and repeating the process several times. He was wild-eyed and his hair was askew after eight hours of repetitive work. Pine needles were everywhere, we all stayed away from the family room. Foul words, agonizing growls and groans popped out from behind the tree in a Tourette's-like manner throughout the day.
One of the most patient people I've ever known, my husband, lost it.
It's Sunday morning. I rose early, as I usually do, and found a half consumed Vesper in the kitchen sink. I don't know if it was the first or the third, but I know my husband deserved it, or them.
Because, he did this...