Look Away From the Light, Part 1

(Dear Readers - this post got way too long, so I'm splitting it into two, like King Solomon and the baby. Maybe more like an Oreo, and the first part of the story has more cream filling.  I'll post the second part tomorrow, so all three of you will have to wait.)

I'm starting to believe my house was built on top of a graveyard.  A graveyard made up of the graves of elves from Santa's workshop and sleigh-pulling reindeer who had a little too much eggnog and wandered out on the highway.  It's like the sacred burial ground of magical creatures, who have risen up to wreak their revenge.  "Why, Julie?" you might ask.  "Why are you such a pessimist?" 

I'm glad you asked, Gentle Reader.  Turn off your TV, the static is how they talk to you.  This is my story.

I've always loved the season of ThanksMas, or ChristGiving.  Let's go with ChristGiving, so I can give Jesus his props.  ChristGiving was always a season of truce when I was growing up.  In our otherwise chaotic and frequently miserable home, my parents always seemed to call a truce between what used to be "Nebraska vs. Oklahoma and Ohio State v. Michigan Football Day" (now known as Black Friday and Charcoal Gray Saturday) and December 31. 

Thanksgiving Day was great, but ChristGiving season began with cinnamon rolls and coffee the morning after Thanksgiving, and Dad would call his bookie to get the spread and place his bets, Mom would make Bloody Marys, and we all settled down to cheer for the Cornhuskers and watch the parental units get a little drunk, but it was a HAPPY drunk, particularly when Nebraska or the Buckeyes would win and Dad would get a little spendin' money. 

We would then get a 20 foot tree, because we lived on a lake and had one of those Walls of Glass that looked out on the lake that was two stories high.  Mom would pick the tree and Dad would grumble about the Fucking Tree all day as he hauled it home and set it up in the stand and prayed it wouldn't fall over and break through the Wall of Glass, and then he had to get on a 30 foot ladder to get the star on top and put up lights.  We would light the fireplace for the first time, and twice actually had a chimney fire, one time requiring the fire department and a bucket brigade from the lake executed by our drunk neighbors.

Mom only cried when it looked like the tree might not make it in the stand, but Dad always made it work, and otherwise it was all Smiles Everyone, Smiles!  We lit the Fucking Tree and it was spectacular, and even Dad got into the mood because he was a lapsed Mennonite and they really didn't go crazy on the whole tree/decor/gluttony/materialism thing when he was growing up, so embracing Santa Christmas was like part of his delayed teen rebellion.

SO, short story long, I really get into ChristGiving season.  Love the turkey.  Love the stuffing.  Love the music.  Love the decorating.  Love the whole Christmas morning thing with the kids, I just never tire of it.  There truly are moments of completely unbridled JOY at ChristGiving, from the smile on my daughter's face to the pulling on of the elastic waistband pants to tuck in to that turkey or 8th Christmas cookie.  (I even love Christmas cards, and I have personal standards for mine, which Current Husband hates - it has to have a photo, a letter, and be hand signed.)

(Hey look, the blog post should almost be over,
and yet, I still haven't gotten to the point!)

Last weekend was awesome.  For the record, my mother-in-law is a great cook, and she doesn't even read this blog so I'm saying that from a place of truth, not suck-uppyness.  On Thursday night, I went to WalMart for pre-Black Friday and puking circus women.  On Friday, I rested.  On Saturday, I drove to a local tree seller, put the seats down in the van, and shoved that seven-foot-tall bad boy in.  I like to get the tree all by myself and just show up at home with it, unannounced.  This way, I don't have to take a carload of people with opinions that might be different than mine to select something that I am going to mainly be in charge of, and then I don't get any arguments as to why today isn't a good day to decorate the tree.

Thus concludes the first part of my pointless holiday story.  I can't guarantee the second part is any better.  I do swear a couple of times, and there is a minor amount of violence, so there's that.  Part 2 tomorrow.