New kind of Christmas.

Christmas is going to come sometime around, oh, Sunday around here. Rob and I have family scattered around the Wisconsin/Illinois stateline region, and likely won't be together on Christmas Day for that reason. Such is life, I suppose. So we'll make our own Christmas. On Sunday. 

First holidays and new traditions are tricky in the beginning. It has to be PERFECT, you know. Whose house? And under whose tree? Do I get him a card? Is there romance, or just gifts and movies with a blanket on the couch? There's pressure, being the first Christmas, and all. Will every Christmas hereafter be compared? 

I've already done my shopping, wrapped my presents, swatted his ass for snooping under my tree. Now we wait. 

We've yet to reach the point where either of us is sacrificing family tradition, and I'm OK with that. Family tradition is a hard one to break, and you're hard pressed to find a couple who's managed it with ease. 

And so we're have our own Christmas. Bug Christmas. 

Don't laugh.

He's totally going to kill me for saying this out loud on the Internet, and you might barf, but his name is Bug. OK, not really, but I call him Bug, dammit. And he calls me Bug. We're Bugs. 

Don't tell him I said this, but he's kind of a wimp about it. His manhood is in jeopardy. Like, he'll call me Bug all day. I call him Bug all day. Varying degrees of Bug, too. 

Buuuug. BUG. Buggggg. BUGGY. 

I'm serious. It's such a habit now that I have a really hard time calling him Rob when in conversation with the outside world.

"Oh, I had dinner with Bug..."


Anyway, he gets all squeamish when I do that. If he calls me while I'm with friends, and I answer with a, "Hey Bug!," he audibly recoils. 

"You-can't-call-me-that-out-loud," he whispers. "It's cute and disgusting."

So as an early Christmas present, I just thought I'd call him out. Wish him a Merry Christmas the way I want to: