It's a little peculiar for a man to be as excited for Christmas as I have been since the age of three. It's been the cause of a deluge of homosexual jokes that fly between myself and my uncle, who dominate Christmas decorating. My cousin is into it as well. Cuts down his own tree and everything. Like in the woods. Not one of those pussy-farm situations.
I'm talking about being the first on the street to get a Hewlett-Packard computer in 1993 with dial-up so I can look at porn in the basement type excitement. I'm talking every inch of the house in COVERED in this shit. I'm talking burning pine scented candles. I'm talking lighting fires (although now I use the Yule log thing online or onDemand because I'm lazy as fuck). I'm talking making scalding hot chocolate and waiting to drink it - only to forget about it and pouring it out hours later.
Decorating for Christmas is better than sex for me. Better than any drug, any type of alcohol in the world. Trust me. Although Old New England Egg Nog is a close second. And the hangover is devastating. Nothing screams Christmas more than morning after diarrhea from a cream-based holiday booze fest.
I guess it all started when my grandmother would put so many decorations in her home that you literally couldn't move. Not one inch. It would take her about a day to decorate when I was a small kid. Then one day turned into two, then three, then at the very end, FOUR FUCKING DAYS. (Plus I had to decorate my mother's house - which took just as long). It ended up getting to the point after college where I would take off two weeks at work and just dedicate 80+ hours to decorating. How the fuck I still earned money at this point is beyond me.
I had a reputation as the, "light man" in town. People started to call me to install the "exterior illumination" portion of their festiveness. I did my old girlfriend's house, my uncle's, my friends, it was a legit business. Yeah, I don't do that anymore. Plus decorating my ex's house, who is married to my childhood best friend and has a kid with him, would be kind of weird?
My Nana even had friends that were so into Christmas that they'd start in October, and FINISH December 1st. That's like 90 days of straight up decorating. We even got to the point where my grandfather would make is own, MAKE HIS OWN goddamn lights for the entire trim of the house. I still have them neatly tied up and organized in my childhood home. Surely never to use them again since they're most likely going to catch on fire if I plugged them in.
I don't have access to an actual picture of said lights. I'd have to travel to another town and take photos out of an album, scan them or whatever, and you get the point. I don't earn any ad money so the effort isn't going to be made. It was like the picture above, only just unreal how the man MADE HIS OWN LIGHTS. Like who the fuck has time for that? Retired people - but none of my grandparents retired until their late 60's. SO just imagine this type of enthusiasm WHILE working for 50+ years.
Fast-forward to the age of about 10, or 11. Its the four day marathon of decorating. We start the NIGHT of Thanksgiving. Take all those turkey shits down. Pile it away. Trash it. Shit's over.
Now, we'd take down EVERYTHING in the house that was a normal nick-nack. All the creepy dolls have been exiled for a month. I'm talking about taking down all the normal shit too, on every shelf, every square inch, completely clean. We'd pile it all in both of her extra bedrooms. Let's face it, the days of her friends and family getting shit-hammered at her house, pissing on the front lawn, and having to sleepover were gone. Her kids are out and in their own homes. These were now exclusively for piling shit in for the months of November and December.
Now, the annual pilgrimage to the attic. There were over 40 boxes. They all weighed at least 50 pounds. Straight up cardio and strength training. Main highlight of this event is to see how many times I can slam my head on an errant nail or support board while fighting through CTE.
Day four, you're done. Not much to it really. Kind of a dumb post. But wait...
Now I'm in my 30's and I work a few jobs. I have a main squeeze that pays the bills and is pretty demanding, and a few side gigs that allow me to drink freely without disturbing the bank account too badly. I can't possibly have time to do all that decorating, so I toned down my expectations BIG TIME. Plus the attic stairs are fucking scary. I did a self install, so there's no reason they should be trusted.
I mean, my grandparents have since passed away, but my Mother still "needs help" with decorating. Trust me, I LOVE nothing more than to decorate, but, the stress is fucking overwhelming. And if I had pubes, I bet they'd be grey because of it. I trim my pubes. Anyway, my mom has massive back problems, combined with crippling loneliness and several weeks in which texting with me consists of the words, "Another night with nothing planned" as if I need more guilt in my life. So, each year, I decorate her house too. And it's 10x more shit than my grandmother ever had, and my Mother's house is SMALLER. It's a killer.
Now focus on my shit. I moved into my wife units house (she already had a house when we met) in 2015 (kinda), where she only had ONE box for Christmas. Flash to 2018, and we now have 10. But the clutter in my house is UNREAL. She refuses to get rid of anything. So Christmas is about the only time when I can put things away, while secretly never returning them to public view come January. proves a point that she knows ZERO about the shit in the house, but if I'm caught throwing anything away, I'll be stabbed. Instead, I just box it away and let it sit in the attic until it eventually falls through the kitchen ceiling in 5 years.
Anyway, I promise to make it more interesting next time. I just had to tell you all that I'm still available for decorating services because I'm poor. Please hire me. My kids want Power Rangers for Christmas.