You know a cock block, right? It’s that thing that happens when you’re trying to score a little something-something, only somebody comes up and says something really embarrassing or stupid in front of your target.
“Hey, Man, did you ever get that conviction for pedophilia wiped off your record?”
“Dude, your wife’s outside in the parking lot. Just wanted to give you a heads up.”
At some point in our whole Christmas vomit process, MTM threw me a cock block of sorts. Instead of complaining about the glitter and the sequins, the twinkles and the shine, he embraced it. With gusto.
I know the moment it happened. He saw these slinky icicles in a store, and he bought them
for himself for me. When I opened them, my face quivering between “WTF is it?” and “I love it. You shouldn’t have.”, he ripped the box out of my hands and demonstrated their worth.
“They stretch. And, they wiggle when they hang from a branch. See? SEE?”
He jumped up and down beside the tree, over the moon with himself and his ornaments, and I lost control of Christmas vomit. His cock block would cause negotiations about everything: where to put the tree; how to place each bauble with perfection; what to do to attain the proper proportion of matte and shine.
I even tried to downplay the importance of decorating the very next year. “We’re going to be gone for half the month, MTM. What’s the point of dragging all that out?”
But, he was already in the attic, ripping open boxes and greeting ornaments like they were bosom buddies.
I think he kissed the slinky icicles. He probably still does.
To read more about MTM the urban designer/architect:
A Coda for my Architect
How to Wound the Architect Spouse
Help! I’m Married to an Architect!
This post is part of the series Roll Out the Holly, about the stories Christmas ornaments can conjure. Click here to read the series from the beginning.