There is nowhere in the world I hate more than the attic.
At the top of a set of rickety pull-down stairs on a plywood floor in dozens of Rubbermaid bins are scores of ornaments and lights, wreaths, garland, Nativity scenes, bells, stockings and reams of wrapping paper.
Each year after Thanksgiving, I am instructed to trudge up those wooden pull-down stairs and haul all of that gaudy stuff down from above the garage. Inevitably, I miss a step and turn my ankle, or scrape my knuckles squeezing a bin through the doorframe, or throw out my back lifting the unreasonably heavy tree box. Usually I'll get poked with an ornament hook or cut my finger on a shattered bauble. I'll get sick on wassail and cheeseball and end up reaking of peppermint well into the new year.
Growing up, my mother turned our home into a winter landscape that would rival even the most spirited of department store displays. She would meticulously place untold numbers of Santa and snowmen figurines, wooden sleighs, wise men, bells, candles, angels and reindeer. Each were wrapped with tissue paper and boxed carefully making decorating an all-day affair. It was all kept in either the attic or the crawlspace and it was up to yours truly to fetch it.
After I'd retrieved the goods, she would put on a Perry Como holiday album and a garish Christmas sweater and force me to stage the crèche while shouting orders from under mounds of plastic pine branches, ribbon and fake snow.
Therefore I came to dread the holiday season because I am:
A.) Unapologetically lazy; and
B.) See A.
My wife chose to continue my yuletide misery by hoarding a collection of Christmas decorations of her own. No matter how much I protest, each year the stack of Rubbermaid bins gets larger, the ornaments more plentiful, and the outdoor lights more elaborate. And guess whose job it was to schlep it all out? And then after having to stare at it until January, I'd have to box it back up and carry it back into the attic where it would take up space for another year.
However, this year the tables have turned. As she headed out of town for two weeks in early December, the decorating was left unfinished. When she returned from overseas, nary a mistletoe adorned our doorway, not a poinsettia in sight, no tinsel to be found. No one would ever guess a couple of Gentiles lived here.
Bah Humbug, and to all a good night!
But as December 25th rounded the corner and our mantle had nothing to show for it but a gathering of dust, even I of the Dickensian Scrooge-ness became a bit wistful over the lack of at least a rudimentary tannenbaum.
So we took a trip to Menards and purchased decorations the Tortfeezor way:
Two $0.88 12-inch fake trees.
Two $1.39 strands of lights.
One $0.99 box of discount baubles.
We used bent paper clips for hooks and three small ornaments that my grandparents gave us as early Christmas gifts at Thanksgiving. If you're keeping track, after tax, we spent a total of $5.86 and ten minutes on decorating this year.
Now this was a win-win for all involved. She got to decorate (albeit minimally) and I didn't have to go into the attic.
Christmas miracles, it turns out, really do come true after all.
Happy Holidays everyone!
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