Given choice in the matter, I would order tasteful strings of white lights to spiral the front door edgeworthia; soft lumens to uplight red-twigged dogwoods, and boxwoods elegantly draped with starry points of light that softly pulsate - not blink like the open sign on a Times Square pizza stand. I would use color sparingly, tediously removing all the irritating magenta bulbs that defy basic laws of color harmonics, and use my strings of pure reds, greens and yellows to illuminate one or two deserving evergreens.

And nowhere an extension cord to be seen.

This fantasy stands in stark contrast to reality. My husband deals with the annual display in a very different, very masculine way: as a problem to be solved with the least amount of fuss, bother, and general persnicketiness. It is an issue that finds us at odds every year.

Invariably the first weekends of December find me playing catch-up with holiday cards, winter clothes and ill-advised cookie swaps signed up for in September. Before I know it, the creak of the attic ladder alerts me to the fact that the day has dawned. He is ready to get the job done and I have failed once again to sort specific strings with specific labels to ensure specific results. I close my eyes and specifically reach for the mulled wine.

Chaos reigns in the garden for the next four hours. Totes are upturned. Light strings are grabbed higgledy piggeldy. Orange extension cords are inexplicably selected and connecting plugs hang obtrusively from wreaths I keep forgetting to give to Goodwill.

And then my daughter gets involved. Random garden structures are clothed in blinking magenta. A string of icicle lights marches across half of the fence and stops abruptly in front of the garbage bin. My husband thinks blue and pink is an appropriate lighting scheme for the pavilion.

I do not go down without a fight. At some point in the proceedings I bravely don jacket and boots, come out onto the porch and stare pointedly at the multi-color snowman that now adorns a once rustic barn door. I do not yell. My words are carefully chosen.

Nonchalantly, I ask if C4 lighting is the best choice to illuminate a child’s bicycle that was left out in late summer. I casually inquire whether icicle strings hanging off wilted geranium baskets truly brings out their best qualities, and if "Christmas Carnival" is really the look we’re aiming for.

A wordless glance from my husband – resonating with cold, irritation and chapped hands – is all it takes to send me scuttling back inside to the comfort of the fireplace. My feeble rebellion is over in an instant. All is lost. I add another shot of vodka to the mulled wine and continue to address piles of Christmas cards, once again resigning myself to the slings and arrows of outrageous front yards.

An hour later the husband is also relaxing by the fire and reminds me that soon the house will be even fuller with small children.

I remind him that they are other people’s children and they should be taught good taste at an early age. He goes back to his book.

I suppose I could handle the injustice of it all if these people at least let me put white lights on my indoor tree and stopped muttering arrant nonsense about Christmas being for the little ones.

This year (and every year actually), ask not for whom the Christmas bell tolls, it tolls for me.