Open Season

Well, now it’s officially Christmas season. I refused to participate in the pervasive, premature Christmas commercial craze, but now it’s after Thanksgiving, so it’s not completely obnoxious and inappropriate. Now your Christmas comments are welcome.

As with every year with my family, Black Friday was spent not out shopping like a banshee but holed up at my parents’ house, decorating. This year, we actually used up every single strand of lights outside. Why is this a rarity? Because it only happens when I’m guaranteed to be around over New Year’s to take them town off the roof.

So the morning after my annual turkey coma, I awoke to Burl Ives heralding the advent of the good old artificial tree in the living room. I contributed by lighting a pine-scented candle, just to mess with our minds. Did the tree just come to life?

While my mom and my sister were putting ornaments on the tree (a “tradition” I can never make myself get excited about), I sat down to begin my task: untangling and sorting Christmas lights, taking stock of what we have so I could decorate outside.

I love lights. A lot of the commercialism of the season I can do without, but a fair amount of it I do get into. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be mocked for being “just another yuppie, consumer-whore lemming,” but as the Captain will tell you, I’m a sucker for atmosphere. Lights are good. And I’m very much looking forward to seeing Christmas-on-steroids in Minneapolis next weekend…

Anyway, so I cracked open the boxes of lights, held up a tangled, knotted mass, and said, “This is so cliché!”

Why is it that this happens every year? Because the lights aren’t exactly put away lovingly after every New Year’s. It’s more like, “Get the hell out of my sight, you lights! I’m throwing you back in the basement where you belong, because I’m sick of Christmas!”

Seriously. It looks like a werewolf put them away.