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By Jack Gordon
First let me state, for the record, that it’s all very lovely—tasteful, even, especially by prevailing standards. We aren’t talking neon reindeer on the roof or blazing lawn displays with processions of elves, camels, wise men and such, all burning enough juice to cripple a nuclear power plant. I have no 12-foot Styrofoam candy canes to lay at my dear wife’s feet as I cry out, “J’accuse!”Neither do I mean to suggest, your honor, that she crams our home’s interior with the worst examples of Christmas kitsch. Quite the contrary. I am the first to acknowledge that she is a talented decorator. She could turn pro. The designer creation she makes of our Christmas tree each year would honor the display window of the most upscale Manhattan storefront.
I make no claim to victimhood in this matter. I am not aesthetically abused. If I came before you with malice in my heart, it is true that I could condemn the Santa face, made of plastic and tiny light bulbs, which she requires me to tie onto the deck railing so that it is visible from the kitchen. But this is an aberration. Let us not quibble.
You're looking at a solid month of sleeplessness and obsession.
No, your honor, it is only out of the deepest regard for my wife and concern for her well-being that I ask you to sign these commitment papers. Yes, they are postdated for next December 1.
She wears herself to a frazzle, don’t you see? Observe the dark circles beneath her eyes. Observe the jittery, maniac gleam in the eyes themselves. She is not a homicidal lunatic, your honor. What you’re looking at is a solid month of sleeplessness and obsession.
She has a full-time job, but each December she takes on the burden of a second one in the form of Christmas decorating. The tree alone consumes her for a full week, and even when you think it’s finished, it isn’t. Every year the tree requires a challenging new design theme—yes, “theme” is the word she uses—and at 3 a.m. she rises from restless slumber and creeps downstairs to retie one of its bows, or reposition one of its poinsettias, or just to stand and stare at the thing until some key to further perfection clicks a tumbler in her frenzied mind.
Then there are the kitchen Clauses. Again let me say that these are quite tasteful, considering the genre. While I am no connoisseur of Santa figurines, I will stipulate that my wife selected hers with a discriminating eye. I am even fond of a few unusual specimens, such as the foot-high Father Christmas in the blue cloth shepherd’s robe, with the staff. But please, your honor, 30 of them? With one or two more added each year? The trend line is terrifying.
Positioning these Santas atop the kitchen cupboards requires first that all the year-round decorative objects up there be removed and packed away—the vases, colored bottles, flower arrangements—and then that the Clauses themselves be unpacked and placed just so, each in an attitude calculated to achieve maximum Yuletide oomph. This involves many trips up and down a stepladder. She’s not getting any younger, your honor.
What with the Santas, and the banister garlands, and the tree, and the design and construction of the fireplace wreath, the theme of which must match the tree’s, she staggers toward the holiday in a state of nervous exhaustion. By Christmas Eve, when she prepares her signature prime rib for every friend and relative whom she has persuaded to come, she is running on fumes. Two years ago I even had to polish the silver.
And next year? Your honor, she is threatening to invite her Nebraska cousins again. Can you imagine spending two days in a house full of people who take enormous pride in the compressed-air cannon at Husker Stadium, capable of firing hot dogs from the football field to eager fans in the top row? And them going on and on about this infernal device while no fewer than 30 Santas gaze down at you from the kitchen cabinets, demanding an unflagging display of holiday cheer and good will toward men?
But I digress. It is not for my own sake that I bring this petition, but for hers. She is a ticking bomb, your honor. Next December just put her someplace quiet and comfortable for 24 days. We’ll let her out on the morning of Christmas Eve. The prime rib really is delicious. And, of course, there is the turkey to consider the next day.
Jack Gordon, a freelance writer, celebrates the holidays at his exhaustively decorated Eden Prairie home.
11 ISSUES (1 YEAR)
