i only wear white when it rains

Shortly after I busted out the kitchen shears, I began calculating the cost of another few tangled strands of lights versus my sanity and decided they needed to be thrown into the trash with the angry force of Godzilla hurling a building. After awhile, it was like playing Tetris. I knew eventually I’d have nightmares if I didn’t stop.

Maya Angelou is quoted as saying, “I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way s/he handles three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.”

When it rains, I shop (and wear white, natch). When I lose my luggage, I buy new clothes. And when my Christmas lights are tangled, I toss them out, not caring if they are recyclable or not. So, I’m not sure what that says about me, but I really hope my living poor life coach skips this blog.

In my defense, about seven strands still survived my Chuck Norris-like attacks. Ripping off branches and cursing, I managed to unwind a lucky few twinkling white lights as dried-out tree needles flew into my nose and every crevice of my marble floors. They’re now neatly coiled away in Ziploc totes, smug as Buzz Lightyear and Jessie, happy to survive another year.

Of course half of them will be burned out next year. Since when did Christmas lights become a one-season use item anyway? Doesn’t anybody remember their grandmother carefully unwrapping strands of bubbling candle lights that have survived four children and as many decades? Well, I don’t either. But it seems somebody should.

Throughout this process, especially while I dragged the 12-foot tree out the front door and down the steps by a leash of tangled lights, I wondered why in the hell I don’t just get a faux Frasier fir from Frontgate like everybody else. But de-Christmasing is like childbirth. You get caught up in all the excitement and forget how bad it fucking hurts.

Surgical gloves are a great way of avoiding sticky tree sap. And letting people know how bat ass crazy you are.