Reindeer Poop

I like Christmas. I don't really do it up, but I like it. I've never put up lights or a tree for myself, but then again, I don't try to stab Santa in the jugular with a pen if I bump into him at the mall. (Well, I don't do that unless I suspect it's a Santa doppelganger.) So, when Laura asked me if I wanted to decorate for Christmas, I said, "Sure, let's give it a shot." In my mind, I imagined this would entail a stocking on the chimney for me and maybe a candy cane hanging off of the microwave. That assumption proved to be mildly inaccurate.

She decorated yesterday afternoon, and when I came home from work, I seriously suspected I had stumbled into the North Pole. Not only are there two trees and four stockings, but there are two of those Christmas Countdown thingies. I actually have no idea what they're called, but in two separate spots of the house, there are displays that show how many days it is until Christmas. I can only presume there are two of them in case I forget the number of days on the walk from the kitchen to the bathroom. With every step I take, I'm worried I'm going to crush some porcelain manger scene or animatronic, breakdancing elf. It would not be a great surprise if, tomorrow morning, I discovered my car covered in reindeer poop.

I don't say any of that in a negative way. I like it, in fact, and I applaud both the fact that she owned all of that crap as well as the fact that she was able to put it all up in one afternoon. It seems to me that if you're going to decorate for Christmas, you should really decorate the hell out of the place. That's what we have. Should the actual Santa ever come by, he'd probably try to pay the cable bill because he'd assume it's actually his house. I am cool with that. If she starts trying to dress me up in sweatshirts with reindeers blowing kisses to each other, then and only then will I purposely sabotage one of the Christmas Countdown displays.