Ah, ‘tis the season, as they say; that time of year again. That time of year when everything is so exciting, so beautiful, so frustrating. Yes, it’s time for that always ominous task of decorating. The tree is never really that bad, of course, nor are the garlands or the other indoor decorations. But those lights! Those strings and strings of outdoor lights! Always shall they be the scourge of the Christmas fanatic. They may seem lovely and harmless enough to those who have never had to deal with these things of havoc, but to those who know . . . there has never been a worse holiday tradition invented.
To begin with, there is the finding of the loathsome lights. Usually, depending upon who you are, they can be found in jumbled messes in taped-up cardboard boxes, shoved carelessly and with much hatred into the farthest reaches of the dark and dusty attic or dank and dirty basement. The boxes were most likely stuffed full and thrown into the blackness with the hope that the lights would be forgotten by the next year. This hope is of course dashed as soon as any Christmas-spirited child asks, “What about the lights?” You know that if you tell the kids that the lights were thrown away, or you just don’t feel like putting them up this year, that you would be labeled a “Grinch,” and eventually would be wheedled into buying some new lights or dragging out the old ones, anyway.
So upon giving into the children’s demands the boxes are freed from their exile and the lights from their imprisonment, and you are faced with the lovely task of untangling the knotted cords and wires. Somehow at this point, all those whining children seem to magically disappear, leaving the unsavory job to you and you alone. Cursing under your breath you haul out the first matted string (or strings, you’re not quite sure). After finding one end you begin the lengthy process of untying every knot, laying the finished stretches of cord carefully out on the floor so as not to tangle it up again. With one strand finally done, you move onto the next one, and then the next until you are at last finished with all the lights. You give the final box a mighty kick across the room, then glare triumphantly down at the light strands laying on the floor at your feet. Breathing hard from the tiresome work-out, you take a brief stroll over to the kitchen to get something to drink before continuing on in this laborious task.
Once you are through with your much deserved rest, it is time to go and find the ladder. After rummaging around through all your outdoor gear and tools, you have finally created a path to your prize and quickly retrieve it off the wall. Awkwardly making your way to the house, you miraculously manage to set the ladder up without ramming it through a window. Hurrah for small miracles! Hurrying inside you grab a strand of lights, assuming that all the bulbs are in working order (they were last year, why shouldn’t they be now?) and run back outside. Starting at one end of the house, you place the strands evenly along the roof-line, using all of the lengths that you had laid out. Thankfully, you have just enough to reach around to where you started. With this done, it’s time to plug in the lights.
Going again to where you got the ladder, you rifle through all the junk until you find the orange drop-cord. Taking it back out to where you finished stringing up the lights, you climb the ladder and plug the end of the drop-cord into the plug for the lights. With this done, you climb down and plug in the other end of the drop-cord into the outlet on the house. Nothing happens. Cursing silently to yourself you unplug then replug the cord in again . . . and again. Nothing.
Now you find yourself in the troublesome predicament of needing to test all the bulbs to find out which one it is that isn’t working. Bravo, Hotshot. You now have two choices: (1) testing all the bulbs as they are, still on the house; or (2) taking everything down again and testing them at a more comfortable angle. Being the genius you are, you take everything down again. Now where are those spare bulbs? Since you fail to locate the bulbs you just *knew* you had lying around somewhere, you make a quick trip to the local store. (There is a brief interlude in your excursion when a cop pulls you over for speeding. You tell him you were in a hurry to get these spare bulbs to finish your Christmas decorating, but he gives you a ticket anyway. You glare at the ticket, thinking how very un-Christmassy it was of him to do such a thing to you, but you do drive a bit slower after that.)
Arriving home once more, you set to the task of testing all the bulbs in the strands of lights. Just then one of the kids shows up. “Aha!” you exclaim, pointing at him. He tries to make a run for it, but you grab him by his shirt and set him to work helping you check the bulbs, but not without many a moan and groan from him, as was to be expected. Finally finding the culprit bulbs and replacing them, and releasing the child from his perceived inhumane task, you get back to the job of stringing the lights up again. A good while later the chore is done. This time when you plug things in they work.
Standing back and admiring a job well-done, you give yourself a pat on the back. About this time, all the kids seem to be showing up to take a gander at your handy-work. Figures. Anyway, maybe this year you might consider putting those lights away a little more carefully. And then again, you’ve never really been on amicable terms with those blasted little glowing cretins and they could use another year of dirt and darkness. Maybe next time the kids will forget about them . . .
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