Christmas Rant: Cutesy, Decorative Shit
I elected to expand my rant on Christmas into a whole series on the specific shit I dislike most about the holiday other than the obvious aspect of the entire derailment of the purpose of Christmas itself. And off we go…
Exterior Lights. As a teenager I never minded putting up our lights at home for two reasons: A) I was tall enough to not need a ladder, which made it easy, and B) we had the old, old-school bulbs that were big and had actual paint on the insides of them and when one burnt out, you knew which one it was, because it was the only fucking bulb not on. I could also change that bulb without a ladder. Flash forward to now, and I’m perched half-drunk on a ladder in sub-freezing cold trying to make my fingers work correctly hanging lights that the slightest jolt will case one to die. And one dead bulb makes the whole strand die. So I spend hours swing-testing along the string. In case you’re wondering, I haven’t shrunk or become a double-amputee. I just seem to have been put in houses more on my scale than the low-slung, ranch-style I grew up in.
Interior Decoration. For some reason nobody can feel all Christmas-y without hanging all kinds of shit around the house. Because that typically involves a nail and hammer, that means I by default must be involved. Because apparently my hammer only works when I hold it. As do the nails. Anyway, these aren’t just some cheesy fat man in red wall decorations. Nope. We have to have garlands down stair railings – with lights – before considering where to put other shit. Let me add that the garland is fake, and has a delightful odor of poly-vinyl-chloride or whatever delicious post-refinery oil product it’s made of. But we’re not using actual plants, so we’re much fucking greener than our neighbors!
Sitty-Around-Shit. This catch-all term describes the dish-crates of … crap … we have accumulated at cutesy stores that reek of potpourri and cinnamon. All it does is sit around, therefore the name. Hand-sewn, stuffed Santas ranging from anorexic and NBA-tall to properly-portly and midget-like. They need to stay in the closet they come from. Throw in the elves, reindeer, and the priceless nativity scene made out of macaroni noodles, and we’re ready for a joyful holiday. I also ought to add in the village worth of little houses I was roped into painting myself, which have gradually become electrified, now have indoor plumbing, and get fake trees (wee ones)(with lights) of their own. I think this collection now has a zip code.
Snowmen. Absolute rage is about all I can say regarding my stance on The Snowman Collection. I butcher English and call them ‘Snowmans’ just to add a touch of ass every time I complain about them. It all started with a comment about how one particular … snowmans … looked evil and shifty-eyed. For some reason, the whole family now delights in building the … snowmans … collection each year. I retaliate by leaving them on their sides in death poses wherever they are placed. Fucking … snowmans.
I’d add that there is an entire room in my basement dedicated to the boxes and crates that store this crap all year while I recover my sanity. I figure that had I just invested that money, I could buy one of my kids a college and send him to it.