Shopping for your new girlfriend? Sweet. Here’s a piece of advice for you: that thing you have in your hand right now? Put it down. Put it down and walk away or it’s going to become a big, old thing and your Christmas morning will be filled with screaming and acrimony, instead of Johnny Mathis and mistletoe.

You inconsiderate cur. Is that all I mean to you? Am I just an object for your twisted desires?

I’m sorry I had to do that, but it’s better that you hear it from me.

You must resist the urge to go in the other direction, however. You might be impressed by the Dyson Big Ball Animal, with its 180 AW of suction power, cyclone technology and self-adjusting cleaner head — but she won’t be. (Seriously, though, how awesome is the Dyson? I wish they made cars.)

Put any kind of appliance in your new love’s pear tree and you’ll be forced to flounder through a conversation like this:

“So, you’re saying I don’t do enough housework?”

“What? Noooo. I’ll use the vacuum as much as you do.”

“So basically, you bought this gift for yourself?”

“What? Noooo. I want you to use it.”

“So, you admit it! You don’t think I clean enough!”

Seriously, bruh. Beat yourself over the head with a Yule log now, because it ain’t going to get any better.

I don’t miss having to shop for girlfriends. You think you’re an enlightened male and that all those old cliches and stereotypes belong to another generation and then BAM! Self-inflicted Yule log to the head.

To begin with, you always had to start off with Christmas calculus, which is like regular calculus only it has balls and tinsel hanging off it to add to the fun. It works like this: You started dating a nice, young lass named Dina (which is the hippie version of what used to be Dinah) in mid-September. Oh, the times you had! Foliage-peeping, apple-picking, hayrides, the flea markets … Nice girl, Dina. Sturdy, all-American girl, even without the H on the end of her name.

But let’s be real here. What you’re talking about is a relationship that hasn’t even endured a full three months. After a mere 2.75 months, she hasn’t yet discovered all your weird peccadilloes, like that odd Sunday ritual (that’s really not healthy, bruh) or the fact that instead of changing your underpants, you sometimes just turn them inside out.

So, when Christmas comes around, you have to ask yourself: does this newborn relationship rise to the level at which you can take the easy way out and buy her jewelry? Jewelry means commitment, bub, and never mind the fact that you don’t know Jack-diddly-crap about precious gems in the first place. What we’re really talking about here is expense. Spend too much and Dina(h) will think you want to marry her. Spend too little and she’ll start to suspect that you’re a nonromantic tightwad who probably turns his underpants inside out when they get dirty.

Stay away from jewelry, bruh. You could try to get her clothes, but be aware that the smallest sizing mistake could fall down and crush you like the new Ronco Family-Sized Ball Peen Yule Log.

She wears a size 4. You get her a size 5.

“So, you think I’m fat?”

“What? Nooooo …”

She wears a size 5. You get her a size 4.

“So I’m supposed to squeeze into this skimpy thing to satisfy your sick desires?”

“What? Noooo … Say, could you hand me that Yule log? The really big Ronco one?”

My advice? Get the Dyson. I mean, we’re talking 180 AW here, and tips that oscillate up to 5,000 Hz to separate filth that would utterly destroy another vacuum cleaner. Buy the Dyson so that when Dina(h) storms off in a disgusted rage, that fine machine will be left in your hands.

Oh, the times you’ll have, vacuuming six years’ worth of crud from beneath your couch; Dysoning the path between your bedroom and bathroom so you no longer have to put on work boots just to pee; offering to vacuum for your neighbors as a clever way to meet new women. Not that you’ll need a new woman. You’ve got a Dyson!

I hope you two will be very happy together.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer and advice columnist for men. Email him at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.