Thursday, December 23, 2010
I'm Not Even Going to Mention the Fact That The Cats Are Eating the Christmas Tree.
Now that Rudolph's dead, I think it's clear that Christmas is too dangerous.
Probably we should all abandon it for something safer, like Kwanzaa.
I don't know anything about Kwanzaa really, but I'm pretty sure there's never been a Kwanzaa Day parade where giant inflatable reindeer are stabbed in the head by street lamps and die in front of scores of traumatized children.
Which is how Rudolph bit it, apparently.
I just went and looked up Kwanzaa, and it seems like I'm on the right track. It's all about corn and meditation, and maybe a little Motown, so pretty safe!
Seeing a giant corn deflate would not be so bad.
Another thing Kwanzaa doesn't have is attaching thousands of tiny light bulbs to your house with a staple gun and a really tall ladder. There are not many combinations of things that say Bad Idea more than electricity, heights, and sharp projectiles, unless you add wasps, which we did this year.
See, my husband unexpectedly decided to go a different way with the lights, which is to say, rather than putting up half a strand of lights and then growing bored and leaving the other end to swing freely in the breeze until about March, he and my son decided to cover the entire house with lightbulbs.
Right after the two of them finished dragging huge piles of tangled lights out onto the lawn we had an electrical storm. From his vantage point on the aluminum ladder, my husband said the lightening looked pretty close.
So then he came down the ladder super fast and ran inside, and then realized the ladder was still leaning against the house, pointing directly into my daughter's room, and since we already have a family history of ancestors being killed by lightening inside the house, it seemed like a good thing to move it. Then there was a highly entertaining half hour of watching my husband run out in the rain to the ladder, almost touch it, retract his hand, and run back in the house, just as the next flash of lightening hit. After about five attempts he finally hit it with a stick and knocked it into the yard, where it seemed likely to stay.
Then two weeks later, the job suddenly recommenced. I left the house in the morning to go grade papers. An hour later I received a text message from my daughter announcing that her dad had fallen off the ladder after being rushed by a cloud of wasps hiding under the eaves, and that there was "a lot of blood".
When I got home I found the driveway bloody, the neighbor boy overexcited in the front yard, and my husband bleeding on the sofa while holding a bag of frozen chopped spinach to his head.
"I saw him go over!" my son reported. "He just laid there for a long time after his head hit the driveway."
My husband didn't want to go to the emergency room, of course, knowing he would be lining up with all the other shame-faced Christmas victims, but he was overruled.
I made sure to look while we were there, and there were no Kwanzaa-related injuries to report at the E.R, although, to be fair, there were a few of unidentified origin, like the angry old guy in front of us in a wheelchair who kept muttering to the woman at the counter "Don't hurry on MY account! I'm just bleeding internally! I'll be FINE! You just take your time back there!"
Maybe he had a Kwanzaa limbo injury. It's hard to say.
Anyway, after a CAT scan and two X-rays came back clear, the doctor squeezed the back of the husband's head open like a plastic change purse and said "Hmm, that's going to need some staples!"
Oh, the irony.
The lights on the house are still not quite finished, but that's okay. I'm playing Motown and praying Rudolph is the last Christmas fatality this year.
Merry Kwanzaa everyone.