Thirty-seven.

Thirty-seven.

This is what I’ve taken to screaming at Opie at random intervals.

It’s kind of like Douglas Adams’ Hitchhicker’s Guide to the Galaxy when the mice announce that 42 is the meaning of life. No matter what Opie asks, I yell “Thirty-seven!” at him.

It all started like this:

“We’re almost out of dog food,” Opie said. “Did you happen to buy some today?”

“THIRTY-SEVEN!” I screamed, waving a crumpled piece of paper in his face. “That’s how many people we have to buy Christmas presents for.  THIRTY-SEVEN! And over half of them are your family! We have thirty-seven different people to buy Christmas presents for, including your work gift exchange and you haven’t bought a single one!”

“I bought yours,” he said.

And, somehow, I managed NOT to beat him to death.

The beauty of this is that, now, when holiday events get a particularly stressful, I just scream “THIRTY-SEVEN!” at him and arguments are averted before they even begin.

“Did you actually spend the whole day dressing the animals in Christmas clothes?” he might ask.

“THIRTY-SEVEN!” I responded. “I needed a break from the stress of THIRTY-SEVEN gifts!”

"I thought you got rid of most of your Mickey Mouse things when we got married." He said another day. "Don't you think all those Christmas Mickeys staring at us from the windowsill are a little disturbing?"

"Thirty-seven gifts!" I shouted.

“Are you making Christmas treats again? You said you had a ton of papers to grade." He said earlier today.

 

“Did I mention that we have THIRTY-SEVEN different people to buy Christmas gifts for?” I countered. “THIRTY-SEVEN individuals with thirty-seven different personalities who need gifts in less than a month.”

While this is not always completely informative, it is emotionally satisfying, The only problem is, what in the world am I going to scream at him when the holidays are over?