Hey Lady, Nice Pumpkins
Once the temperature crests the 70-degree mark, the simple truth that you live in the landlocked mountains of the northeast is no impediment to making the fireplace mantle boil-over with fake seashells and emblazoning the front door with festive “Welcome to the Beach” cling-film.
You can just imagine Christmas. But before we get there there’s Halloween and Thanksgiving to contend with, and the former just happens to be mom’s birthday so man-oh-man, you should just see Halloween at this house. It’s like half the plastic factories in China developed food poisoning (say, from freshwater eel) and blew chunks all over Illuminaught’s ancestral estate.
It’s certain that The Daisy thought me a misanthropic Scrooge, if that’s not redundant, at least before we moved in together. Because even Christmas-that High Holy Day of All Decorative Crap-was only acknowledged in my own apartment with a small artificial “tree” that could be unplugged, folded-up like an umbrella and stuffed back into the guest room closet on January 2nd. It was even “pre-lit.” Rock on.
Of course after we moved in together, at those times of year when she understandably wanted to Deck The Halls, she learned for sure I was a Scrooge. And my attempted, growled explanations aside, I doubt she ever fully appreciated why. For as in Ebenezer’s own story, I am proof that most Holiday Joy and/or Decorative Disorders are caused by traumatic past experiences. Childhood experiences that I happen to have the bad karma to be reliving at this very moment, Halloween being a mere three weeks hence and counting.
Now let’s be clear about this: we’re not talking about tasteful, opulent-yet-subtle Martha Stewart Living decorations here. We’re talking about the close-out bins of the Christmas Tree Shoppe, K-Mart’s finest holiday flare; we’re talking about those balsa wood mailbox signs that say things like “Best Witches” in October, “Reindeer X-ing” in December and “Bunny Trail” by, and well before, the first Sunday after the full moon on or after March 21st.
I’m talking about more plastic than all the tits at the strip club, more chintz than a Laura Ashley trunk sale and more wires, bulbs and plugs than a rich man’s death bed. And all of it has to be lugged down from the attic or up from the basement. Then (and this is important) back again.
And look who’s doing that lugging now.
To my utter amazement, those boxes and bags are heavy! After the first few trips up-and-down with the Halloween booty, I was convinced even Hannibal’s elephants would rebel. Can you perchance to dream how many filmy, flimsy, third world synthetics have to be assembled in one container to be heavy? A shit load is the answer you’re looking for. A shit load.
But it makes her happy, and I suppose that’s all that counts. It has also forced dad, for these past two decades of his retirement, to stand up and move his arms and legs every couple of months (an exercise, as you now know, that I have inherited and I wish he didn’t look so pleased about it).
I’m just sayin’, that’s all.
Next time you meet, fall in love with and ultimately cohabitate with someone who displays something less than enthusiasm about “putting up the decorations,” a visit to his or her mother’s house may be all you need to gin up a little understanding.
You could even develop, given an extreme case like my own, something like sympathy.
Best Witches,
~Illuminaught
You can just imagine Christmas. But before we get there there’s Halloween and Thanksgiving to contend with, and the former just happens to be mom’s birthday so man-oh-man, you should just see Halloween at this house. It’s like half the plastic factories in China developed food poisoning (say, from freshwater eel) and blew chunks all over Illuminaught’s ancestral estate.
It’s certain that The Daisy thought me a misanthropic Scrooge, if that’s not redundant, at least before we moved in together. Because even Christmas-that High Holy Day of All Decorative Crap-was only acknowledged in my own apartment with a small artificial “tree” that could be unplugged, folded-up like an umbrella and stuffed back into the guest room closet on January 2nd. It was even “pre-lit.” Rock on.
Of course after we moved in together, at those times of year when she understandably wanted to Deck The Halls, she learned for sure I was a Scrooge. And my attempted, growled explanations aside, I doubt she ever fully appreciated why. For as in Ebenezer’s own story, I am proof that most Holiday Joy and/or Decorative Disorders are caused by traumatic past experiences. Childhood experiences that I happen to have the bad karma to be reliving at this very moment, Halloween being a mere three weeks hence and counting.
Now let’s be clear about this: we’re not talking about tasteful, opulent-yet-subtle Martha Stewart Living decorations here. We’re talking about the close-out bins of the Christmas Tree Shoppe, K-Mart’s finest holiday flare; we’re talking about those balsa wood mailbox signs that say things like “Best Witches” in October, “Reindeer X-ing” in December and “Bunny Trail” by, and well before, the first Sunday after the full moon on or after March 21st.
I’m talking about more plastic than all the tits at the strip club, more chintz than a Laura Ashley trunk sale and more wires, bulbs and plugs than a rich man’s death bed. And all of it has to be lugged down from the attic or up from the basement. Then (and this is important) back again.
And look who’s doing that lugging now.
To my utter amazement, those boxes and bags are heavy! After the first few trips up-and-down with the Halloween booty, I was convinced even Hannibal’s elephants would rebel. Can you perchance to dream how many filmy, flimsy, third world synthetics have to be assembled in one container to be heavy? A shit load is the answer you’re looking for. A shit load.
But it makes her happy, and I suppose that’s all that counts. It has also forced dad, for these past two decades of his retirement, to stand up and move his arms and legs every couple of months (an exercise, as you now know, that I have inherited and I wish he didn’t look so pleased about it).
I’m just sayin’, that’s all.
Next time you meet, fall in love with and ultimately cohabitate with someone who displays something less than enthusiasm about “putting up the decorations,” a visit to his or her mother’s house may be all you need to gin up a little understanding.
You could even develop, given an extreme case like my own, something like sympathy.
Best Witches,
~Illuminaught