The 12 Days of HOLY SH*TMAS: Post #6

Halfway through the countdown, we arrive at the entire reason I decided to do this little list. My aunt's lovely presents could not have made us say HOLY SH*TMAS anymore if they had tried.

There are 3 items, each will have their own post starting with this one.

Keep in mind that my aunt has met my husband once, at my grandfather's funeral. Where my husband was a perfect gentleman and a completely normal guy. Which he usually is anyway, but it's important to really stress that here.

It's hard to know where to start... The expressions as he opened them... The way each one was one-upped by the next... My miraculous ability to not pee my pants...

THESE ARE ALL GIFTS TO MY HUSBAND. NOT TO ME AND MY HUSBAND. TO HIM. ALONE.

Drum roll please...

Let's start with this lovely book.

Pretty.

Granted, my husband has taken me to the Butterfly House on a date, but as with most men, he did so entirely for my benefit. It was not something he particularly enjoyed. And my extended family definitely doesn't even know I have a blog, so they were not aware that my husband had been to a butterfly attraction. We didn't go until last year, which was way after the funeral where my aunt met my husband.

I asked, "Did you just get a book about butterflies?"

He said, "Looks that way."

He scratched his little goatee as he does when he's deep in thought.

Oh, sorry, my bad. It's not just a book about butterflies.

It's Butterflies of the World Volume III.

Because he loved volumes I and II so much.

Wait... wait for it...

Psych! No butterfly literature for you!

It's a fake book! With butterflies all over it!

But, it wasn't empty...

Inside were...

I mean, of course.

The real question is how could the faux book

not contain a grater and a basting brush?

Right? Right?

Because when he's not out collecting butterflies, or at his I Love Butterflies support group, or at home reading about butterflies, he's in the kitchen, grating their wings and basting their little bodies doing citrus prep and basting our main course for our tasty, tasty suppers.

My husband makes a wonderful cup of tea. And he can do a frozen pizza justice. Other than that...

*Crickets chirping*

Did I mention yet how much I love my husband? I really do. He is a great guy. That said, he can't even put the groceries away because he doesn't know where anything goes. This is not a man who cooks.

Let me make this clear. My husband does not even refill the ice cube trays when he takes ice from them. He. Doesn't. Even. Make. Ice.*

My brother innocently asked, "Why does Aunt Crazy Pants (name changed!) think you like butterflies?" He followed up without waiting for a response with the not so innocent, "DO YOU? Like, seriously?"

My husband, who could be practicing for a career in politics during this holiday with my folks, said, "They're not my favorite thing, but this book is a nice place to store stuff."

We turned to my mom, since this is her sister, and all she could do was hold up her hands and say, "I have no idea why she thinks he likes butterflies. Maybe she meant to put your name on that." She looked at me like this was surely the answer to all the puzzling, puzzling questions.

I then asked my husband as innocently as I could, "Did you have some type of butterfly-related conversation with Aunt Crazy Pants at some point at the funeral?"

He shot me a look that said, "No, I did not. Thank you for asking, My Love."

At this point, I decided to drop it and said something along the lines of, "We could use a grater!" and we all silently with our eyes look back and forth from one person to the next and agree not to mention this ever again. Not my mom, or dad, or brother, or husband, or me.

Oh, if only her next present didn't make this one look totally normal. Maybe then we could have forgotten all about this. But when you put together a trifecta like my aunt did, there just is no getting over it. Ever.

*The ice thing will come up again if I ever do a post about the very few quirks my husband has that drive me nuts. Some might call them pet peeves. Let's stick with quirks. Sounds less naggy.