I’m not sure what our high was here on the Oregon Coast, but it had to be in the mid 70’s. It’s such a warm night, perfectly still, just right for sipping hot chocolate on the porch. I think that’s just what we will do. Sitting in the darkness, our souls shining.
A quick look into our Halloween box sent me scurrying to Fred Meyer Saturday night. I’m not sure why, but I thought there was more. Just like I thought there would be more at the store. I’m an optimist.
But there wasn’t more; in the box or otherwise. And a quick plug-in of my two strands of purple lights suggested that I was actually down supplies from last year; one lit up, glimmered a few grape soda moments, and promptly died. Harbinger of my evening. The Halloween aisles of Fred Meyer brought no relief. I spent an hour stalking the aisles, in futile hope that somehow I had mistakenly overlooked the obvious. I know beggars can’t be choosers, yada yada yada, but even I have some self respect. And a giant Donna the Dead just wasn’t working for me. No, what I wanted, what I needed was a strand of purple lights; what I got was bupkis. But you knew that already.
I stewed a few moments, pushing my cart through the aisles,
When what to my wondering eyes should appear?
An answer to my purple shortage, remarkably clear!
Not exactly grape soda to light up my night,
Red, green and white—I squealed in delight!
I know what I’ll do, it’s really a cinch,
I’ll swap a few bulbs, Christmas lights do in a pinch.
While Christmas in October makes most want to wince;
The wisdom of merchandizing I’ve come to know since.
I can hear what you’re thinking, you’re still quite the skeptic,
But early I’ll shop to avoid an ulcer most peptic.
And that’s what I did.
It’s still a work in progress,
But I remain,
Yours truly, undaunted.
What you see here is the sum total of our Halloween decorations after 17 years of marriage, less a few gargantuan spiders and a dilapidated web that won’t fit in the box. You would think, being such enthusiasts about the holiday, that we would have more. At least enough to actually decorate a house. But as apartment dwellers for most of those 17 years we have just enough to make a 500 square foot hovel look spooky. . . spookier than it usually looks with its rotting plaster and questionable plumbing. Clearly, we are not prepared.
A 20 month stint in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania taught me one thing: buy early. Sure, sure, people complain (nearly incessantly) that the stores are putting out seasonal decorations earlier and earlier each year. Nothing is sacred. Nothing is holy. The arrival of Christmas in July magically strips away the significance of the holiday and once giddy revelers throughout the realm now find themselves Scrooged! “Walmart stole my glee!” they lament. There is no meaning in Christmas (or Halloween or Hanukkah . . . or Ramadan!) any more. All gone! Evidently, the Grinch who stole Christmas is chain store specializing in cheap plastic toys from China and an all night produce stands.
Now, if you believe the crowd in ashes and sackcloth, then you might think a corporation bought the meaning of the holidays and is now selling it back to us 6 months early. Hogwash! I don’t buy it. Christmas is supposed to be in your heart all year round and it makes no difference when the retailers start mechanizing it to us. It’s ground I refuse to cede. I didn’t sell the holiday spirit in my heart. Did you? Trust me, believing their hype will only lead to folly.
No, what you should be buying is the actual merchandise. Assuming you are in the market for it in the first place. If you aren’t then you are better than the rest of us who have sold out to the likes of Martha, and you may go sit on your high horse in the corner. But keep your mocking to a minimum, please, I’m trying to talk here.
Where was I? Oh yes, buy the junk, er, stuff. And buy early. Because exercising your holiday spirit during the actual season will get you one thing: bupkis. Why? Because while you’re being idealistic about the holidays, the rest of the universe is more pragmatic. They’ve discovered the real trick to celebrating the holidays: buy your decorations early.
The bonus side of such a strategy is that when the holiday does roll around you are not only prepared, you are spared the frustration of running around to every store in the area in a futile search for seasonal lights—only to discover the shelves are empty. Instead of being met with the refuse that not even the early-birds would touch, you can join the ranks of those over there in the corner rocking on their horses. (everybody wave “hi”) Why? Because you have successfully navigated the holiday in such a way that you can be relaxed and blissfully partake of the events. In effect, you pulled off looking like you just didn’t care while maintaining your impeccable sense of style. Kudos. I hate you.
Did I mention that I learned to buy early? Well, I did learn: in the way teenagers learn to drive. Speed limit, schmeed limit. That doesn’t apply to moi! Just because the state handed them a license, doesn’t mean you want to get in the car with them. And when you do, you find yourself hissing through clinched teeth, “When will this child learn!!!”
And sadly, in my case, when it comes to buying early, the answer is never.
. . . that you have no life: You leave yet another snarky comment on a 10 year old’s YouTube video about how he tagged his video as “origami†when clearly it isn’t. What, the first few objections weren’t enough?
. . . that you will never have a life: You leave this comment on a 10 year old’s YouTube video–â€do u get beaten up at school? u wood at mineâ€.
. . . that you’re a good dad: You spend the better part of Saturday morning fixing the description that you wrote for your kid’s YouTube video so that the crazies in the world will stop leaving weirdness in the comment section.
The wind blew off my hat. But I’m still standing.
The wind is howling outside. Howling I tell you! This is our first major storm of the season out here on the coast of Oregon. With gusts of 60+mph, my little house shudders and moans and I want to run for cover. . . or at least crawl under the covers of a neatly made bed. The big bad wolf of Winter is threatening to blow down my house.
I miss Santa Barbara. I miss the sunshine. I miss palm trees swaying gently to a rhythm all their own; unlike the trees on my street which have been doing the limbo!! I miss the smell of jasmine in the air and my lovely hotel room in the palest of blues. I’ll tell you what I really miss: MAID SERVICE.
Holy cow, our house is a pit. I must clean, I must clean—because in order to climb into a neatly made bed, it must be made first! There is no maid service in this house, it’s just me. And sometimes IZ. And never the boy. Did you know that 10 year old boys don’t clean? No! No, they dump their things right in the middle of the entryway, toss their wrappers where they please, and leave small lethal legos on the floor for unsuspecting bare feet to find.** Why didn’t their mothers train them better? This is me howling.
Forget running for cover, I wish I could run for the nearest plane! One ticket to paradise, make it snappy. Instead, I will clean, because I cannot bear the idea of this grime any longer. It will not do. The big bad wolf of Winter may be howling outside, but there is no need for it look like we let him in the door! Off I go.
But, maybe first a cup of tea. And a fire.
**And you know what else they do? They leave walkie-talkies on in their backpacks that make this “Drip, drip, drip” noise which in turn sends their mother on a frantic goose chase because she thinks the wind has blown a HOLE in the roof… Drip! Must find the Drip!
Forget the tea, I need something stronger!
