I said this wouldn’t happen.
I said that she didn’t do anything extreme at Christmas.
I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Wrong as a baby-t on Joan Rivers.
Imagine the easement space in front of your house.
You know, that strip of soil between the sidewalk and the street?
The space where no one can actually grow anything unless you own a terrifically swanky house where someone ran plumbing under the sidewalk. (And if you live in that house, don’t tell me. It won’t make me kindly disposed.)
NO ONE does anything interesting in that space.
That space is for juniper bushes that could grow in a lunar orbit on a wayward asteroid.
That space is for leggy white trash flowers that are really weeds in bad spandex and blue eyeshadow that can survive on the trace moisture in car exhaust.
Or, for god’s sake, that space is for rocks.
It is NOT meant for anything charming, interesting or needy enough to require any more attention than you would typically give the tray under your refrigerator.
Let alone electricity.
But leave it to her.
Yes, indeed, people, leave it to her.
We drove past her house the other night and…and…and…
I’m sorry. Words fail me.
I have to resort to pictures.
Punky, as she will forever more be known because that’s the name my mother used when she harassed me on my blog by posing as the Pumpkin Tramp, has put lights on the shrubs in her easement.
And not tacky, strung from the house like a lame-ass clothesline and obviously linked together with sagging lengths of cord, lights either.
No. Cause that would be how normal people do it.
Each little shrub is a stand-alone, illuminated, frakkin’ Christmas miracle of twinkliness.
In contrast, here is the front of our house:
As we drove by the house, I started freaking out. And by freaking out I mean yelling, hair-pulling (mine, Himself doesn’t have any), pressing my face up against the car window and flattening my not insignificant nose against the glass and moaning.
“What is the issue here?” Demanded Himself. “Why are you so upset about that?”
“Because I don’t know how to do it!!” I wailed.
Yes, people, I am a special sort of crazy.
Is it any wonder to anyone that it took two tries to find the husband capable of coping with this particularly awesome brand of nutso?
I am not off-the-rack, baby.
Not in any way, shape or form.